Don't Touch Me
by Sherlock.bbcfanfiction
Summary: John is a telepath. Between trying to save lives, catch criminals and keep his gift from Sherlock, he's getting worn down. Rating might go up. Slash is eventual.
1. The Rules

**A/N: I went back and edited the majority of the chapters, So I hope spelling is loads better and maybe even grammar too.  
><strong>

This idea popped into my head the other day and I just can't get the story out of my head.  
>Tell me what you guys think and where things should go from here.<p>

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>Chapter 1 - The Rules<p>

* * *

><p>There are rules to the Gift.<p>

Rule #1 - If it is possible to save a life while still keeping the secret then that life is John's personal responsibility.

Rule #2 - Always have a pair of headphones ready

Rule #3 - Never pry into someone's mind unless it concerns Rule #1 or self-preservation

Rule #4 - Avoid all acts of intimate touching of skin, unless for Diagnosis or unless in association with Rule #1

Rule #5 - Take Precautions. Wear gloves and an abundance of clothing (jumpers) when out in public and around people.

Rule #6 - The gift is to be keep a secret, people do not need to think him mad.

Rule #7 - Wear two pairs of Latex gloves when working with patients. Better safe than sorry.

Rule #8 - Avoiding crowded areas is appreciated

Rule #9 - Know the limits of the gift, over exertion could result in nosebleeds, hospitals, migraines, or worse

Rule #10 - Sherlock must never find out

There are rules concerning his Gift, granted John made the rules himself, but they are important and necessary and he abides by them all. If only Sherlock wasn't the exception to all of his rules, and not to the permission of John.

First, the history of John's gift is unsurprising but a necessary tale. A near death experience here...

The three minutes that the in-progress doctor was clinically dead after drunkenly falling and drowning in the Thames during his first year of Uni was more of full on death experience. There really wasn't a 'near' part about it. John had died. He even saw white in the most disappointingly cliche way possible.

A denial of morphine induced craziness there...

John spent three days in the hospital drugged up, recovering from his 'death.' All the while, hearing noises and freaking out when he was touched. To this day, it still surprises John that the staff didn't admit him to a sanitarium after how he acted those days.

* * *

><p>It wasn't until months later, and serious bouts of denial and self-doubt that John came to terms with what he experienced on a daily basis.<p>

John can read minds.

Yes, John realises it sounds a little cheesy and unoriginal, but he finally gave in. He acquiesced that he wasn't mad. He accepted that he can, in fact, hear other peoples' mind. He could find no other explanation, and let's be real, Google is not helpful when it comes to things like this.

It takes even more months, for the doctor to give up on the Google Gods (to which he attempted to find the origin of his gift), John transfers his patience to honing and mastering his skills,

When he finally gives into accepting his gift, months had passed devoted solely to ignoring his gift (to which John calls merely a mental blip, it wasn't until later he considered it a gift) and multiple hospitalizations for panic attacks and severe migraines because he went into an overly crowded store or someone handed him pen in one of his classes touching him accidentally (that was an embarrassing story).

After months, he finally is able to break his gift into three parts.

1. He always hears peoples' minds, no matter where he is, no matter how crowded or deserted the place is. However, he doesn't hear the minds clearly, they are fuzzy, hazy and incoherent. They become white noise, muddled unless John focuses on them. They are annoying and irritating at first but eventually John is able to tolerate them.

2. One day, John was listening to the white noise of other peoples mind when suddenly he hears a stream of sentences in his mind. He doesn't realises that he was staring at a girl across the cafe. He can hear her thoughts, something about perfume. John learned that if he concentrates hard enough he can zero in on individuals' thoughts and hear what they are thinking about. When he realised this with the girl at the cafe, he made a rule not to pry. John is, at first, unsettled by the fact that he can so easily invade peoples' minds, their privacy. He eventually mastered the ability to completely ignore the thoughts in someone's head no matter the proximity.

3. The gift is the most powerful through tactile response. John wasn't a very touchy person before the incident and he is definitely not going to change that now. Every time, someone brushed against John, he stiffened and gets thrown into the memories of the person. When this first started, the doctor was hospitalized more than once due to the overwhelming nature of the new attack/sensation. After those events, the doctor doesn't initiate any touching anymore, unless in cooperation with Rule #1. After he mastered how to effectively touch someone without having an attack the doctor refrained from unnecessary touching, it was the easiest way to prevent nosebleeds and blackouts.

When John comes across a person, skin to skin, his gift allows him to connect with the person he is touching, thus opening the other person's mind and giving John access and a connection to everything the person is thinking and has thought, every memory, every pain. This part of the gift is the scariest and unpredictable, hence Rule #5. After the second hospitalization, John started wearing jumpers and gloves whenever possible. The overwhelming emotions and fainting spells were frankly, getting embarrassing.

* * *

><p>John made the aforementioned rules for himself because he felt like he needed to kept himself in check. He knew that the ability is dangerous and he needs a way to make sure his self-control is lost. John is compassionate and ethical and he has a selfless need to help other people, it's the reason John became a doctor. He relies on his compassion to keep himself attentive and non-abusive to his ability.<p>

He didn't have the rules immediately, however, and when he first started to accept his gift, he had many doubts and run ins on whether to use his gift to alter events. Close calls and narrows escapes in keeping his secret.

The doctor would repeatedly ask himself questions.

_"If I can save their life by using my gift, should I?"_

_"Am I morally obligated? Ethically obligated?"_

His questions weren't answered until six months after his 'death' and the first rule quickly became the most important one of them all.

It was a March day, he was walking down the street after one of his studies. White earphones were pushed into his ears, he had recently found out that listening to music through his headphones lessened the white noise in his brain and the annoying mumbling thoughts of the London's population. Suddenly, he heard a noise, yelling in his head, breaking through his music barriers and echoing almost painfully. He staggered on the street, listing to one side, tugging his earphones out and scanning the busy London pavement. People on the footpath strolled around him, glaring at him suspiciously. John ignored them, looking for evidence of distress in the area. Another yell echoed through his brain, causing John to shut his eyes at the unpleasant intrusion.

_"Why, Why did he call whilst I'm working."_ He heard the thought invading his head. He whipped his eyes around, trying to find the origin of the thought. He saw a cab speeding down the street. He concentrated clumsily on the driver. Sure enough, the woman, the cab driver thoughts screamed in John's mind. He was dazed and wondered idly how the thought had penetrated his defenses. He noticed instantly the cabby's reckless driving, heading in his direction.

He suddenly spotted a little girl, no more than five. Her long blond locks curled down her back as she fiddled with a blood red balloon tied to her wrist. She was also heading into the street right in front of John, right in front of the distracted cab headed straight towards them. John listened for the cabby to realize her speed and slow down or brake. Her thoughts screamed about a cheating spouse distractedly. The cab was getting closer, ominously. John made a split second decision and grabbed the little girl by the back of her coat, pulling her out of the way of the careening cabby just as he felt the sudden whoosh of the vehicle speeding by. As John yanked the little girl back, the doctor tumbled also, pulling the girl safely into his arms. John hit the pavement with a thump and held tight onto the girl, protecting her from smacking against the footpath.

The entire exchange happened in less than 7 seconds.

"Amanda!" A woman called, her face suddenly loomed over John and he had reflectively wrapped his arm around the girl protectively.

"Thank you." The woman said as John stood the little girl, Amanda, up and then smiled down at her.

"No problem." John answered smiling and putting his headphones back in his ears. Thus, Rule #1 was born.

* * *

><p>Later, he would ponder and wonder why he heard the cab driver's voice so vividly and with no conscious efforts to concentrate.<p>

It would spend hours and hours brooding over the fact and days later would still idly wonder.

Finally, he couldn't think of a reason and the questions were driving him crazy. He decided eventually that is was inexperience on John's part and obvious distress in the woman's mind.

Since that incident, John never experienced thoughts like that again, thoughts that were uninvited.

Never, until Sherlock came around and literally blew everything he ever knew about his gift out of the water and onto dry land, leaving the doctor flopping like a fish desperate for air.

However, that tale is for another part of the story.

He spent the next six months, strengthening his skills and learning how to use them, but what is more important, using them without another person noticing. This was the hardest part of controlling his telepathy.

During his first experiments, John observed people and it became extremely and obviously apparent that the minds he probed knew of an intrusion. A little facial twitch here or a full out frown and frantic scanning of the crowd there. John didn't know how they knew but he guessed that somehow the brain is able to detect the intrusion, some primal instinct. Eventually, he managed to read thoughts without detection and without giving himself away, controlling even his own facial features.

However, tactile responses turned out to be bit different. When John touches someone, his mind connects to theirs, its make a bond that allows John to filter through the other person's memories. This type of invasion of the mind doesn't go unnoticed, not to mention the connection sometimes takes a bit of time to make, delving through memories, and then being able to break the connection safely is a tad noticeable.

Once, John had to break a connection with a comatose patient prematurely and abruptly, causing the patient's heart rate and brain activity to go up innocuously. John walked away with a bloody nose, dizziness and a migraine. The patient, who had been in a coma for five years, miraculously, woke up the next day, asking for a blond angel. In fact, the whole coma ward seemed to have a rapid spree of waking patients, each one asking for the blond angel. The last three patients that John woke that week came out of their comas without asking for a blonde angel and it wasn't until then that John knew he could successfully infiltrate an awake person without the person noticing a mental intrusion.

John worked six months at developing his gift, how to control it, how to read other people's minds, how to master his own physical features to not give away his gift. He learned how to control the minds, reading them and not making the other person feel violated. He finally learned how make a tactile connection subtly while taking the least amount of time possible.

It was a whole year after he acquired the skill that he could performed his tactile links without raising suspicion and feelings of intrusion or taking more than five-seconds. He started putting his gift to good use.

John had quickly blossomed as an up and coming doctor as he worked through school. However, he was an ethical man, more often than not he didn't use his gift to cure patients. He did use two sets of latex gloves when he examined his patients, sometimes one set isn't enough. John refuses to use his gift as method of fraud. He doesn't use his gift, he does not want to cheat. He doesn't want to be a good doctor because he can read minds. He wants to be a good doctor because he is smart, charming and damn good at curing and helping people.

Despite all of this, sometimes his gift has a mind of its own and decides to work through John's precautions.

One point after the year mark, a patient heart rate had started to drop rapidly. John, at the time, had just started his residency in St. Barts and was doing one of his rounds. He hustled into the chaotic and bustling room already pulling a second pair of gloves on. The patient was only there for an overnight observation because of a concussion, he shouldn't being having these complications.

"Mr. Having. Can you tell me what hurts." John had spoken calmly at the man in front of him gasping for air, unable to speak back. John ran his hands over the man's scalp looking for bleeding or any sign of missed trauma. The man's eyes are panicked as they looked straight into the doctor. Suddenly, John felt a hand wrapped tightly around his exposed wrist. In a matter of seconds, John can see the man's lungs collapsing before his eyes, there is a bit of internal damage and trauma. He saw the man panicking and he can feel the lack of air through the man's touch. John broke the connection carefully when the man let go, he collapsed on the bed, not breathing. John was only connected for a split second, not noticeable to the others in the room.

"His lungs are collapsing, get him into surgery." John shouted to the nurses, orderlies and other doctors in the room, who only stare back incredulously. "Move!" John orders and the room bustled with movement and the patient was rushed away. John stood next to the empty space as he watched the man being wheeled away, a nurse doing rescue breathing upon the man.

"How did you know that?" Dr. Thorn, John's boss asked him later. John is used to questions in situations like this.

"Earlier, I saw Mr. Having experiencing very minimal breathing problems." John answered back matter of fact.

"That's just an after effect of the concussion." Dr. Thorn nodded, his eyes intrigued.

"That's what I assumed." John stated.

"Well, I'm glad we got it this time. Good Job, Watson." Dr. Thorn said with a smile, walking away. John does not like to lie, but keeping his gift a secret is important, and John returned to his rounds.

* * *

><p>Most cases, John avoids his gift, he avoids the touching and the mind reading. Part of the doctor is uncomfortable with the invasion of privacy. After he mastered his skill, he did his best to find a way to avoid using it unless the situation deemed it absolutely impossible.<p>

He wears long sleeves shirts and extra pairs of gloves, he listens to music on a daily basis and he never goes, willingly, into other peoples minds.

Then he decided to go to war. In the long run, it probably wasn't the best idea, but his dad was a war veteran and proud of it. Once John finished his medical school and became a doctor he signed up for duty. He was shipped to Afghanistan within six months.

Afghanistan was the only time in his life were he didn't feel shame for using his gift, yes he still ethically avoided it, but with the dying soldiers around him and the importance of saving lives, the gift felt that it needed to be present and with rations, John couldn't use two sets of gloves on the battlefield.

At first, John suffered many bloody noses, and he was lucky that was all. He knew the dangers of the connections he was making, willingly and unwillingly in the chaos of the battlefield. There were multiple cases during those times where he could have been in worse shape. His first tour was hard on him. While he would treat the wounded, he would see flashes of families and women, mothers and siblings, he couldn't push them out, they flooded in with the information of the injuries. For the first few months, John cried himself to sleep every night, over the families he had seen. After six months, John finally stopped fighting and intentionally used his ability to save as many lives as possible. He focused on the memories that had to do with the injuries, sometimes pictures of families would pop through and that just made John more determined to save the soldier. It worked, he saved many lives and even talked to the soldiers whose families he had seen.

Dr. Captain John Watson soon got a reputation. He became popular on the battlefield, he didn't even feel guilty about using his gift like that. He saved countless lives, three times the normal for an army medic.

During the war, he stopped hearing the white noise of people's thoughts. He thought this alarming at first but then grew used to it. Occasionally he would test and make sure he still could read minds, he would probe people's minds for reassurances but no more than a few seconds.

In the middle of his second tour, everything went downhill. He was shot and invalided home.

Upon returning home, John was immediately unhappy, he felt useless and his headaches were common due to the noise. He felt himself wasting away and worthless.

A week back in London, John fainted walking to his new flat. The white noises of the London population was to much for the doctor after not hearing it in the sands of the desert. He woke up in the hospital, he had been unconscious for two days. He immediately checked himself out against the doctor's wishes. On his way out he ran into Mike Stamford...

* * *

><p>I don't know where this story came from.<p>

Ahead, I'm going to skip Sherlock and John meeting and dive right into them working together, probably months down the road.


	2. Angelo's?

Hello Lovelies, I'm really enthusiastic about this story.

Just to be clear Sherlock's thoughts are italicized.

P.S. I loved all the reviews and alerts. It makes me feel loved. Input of how the story should go is always appreciated.

* * *

><p><strong>A couple months after he moved into Baker Street.<strong>

_"JOHN!"_ The doctor flinches, he is right in the middle of recalling the past few months with one, Sherlock Holmes. He almost gets up, the doctor has a somewhat unhealthy obligation to come when Sherlock calls. Growing impatient to a man who actually didn't even speak, John raises himself slowly out of his bed and makes his way down the stairs, listening for the eventual call.

Sherlock Holmes is an interesting creature. When he first entered the lab with Mike Stamford all those months ago, all the white noise of London stopped, John's brain went blank with silence. John remembers being frozen in place at the silence. He handed the man his phone at some point while listening to his brilliant deductions, but the entire time he was silent _in lieu_ of the silence. John didn't realise until the potential flatmate had left the room that Sherlock was the cause of the silence in his head. As soon as the detective strolled out of the room, his coat following melodramatically, the white noise and mumbling thoughts came back, almost overwhelmingly, it took the rest of the day to get used to the noise.

The next time John met with Sherlock, outside of their potential new flat, the white noise ceased again. John took advantage and probed the younger man's thoughts carefully. Sherlock's deep baritone voice echoed throughout his head, his thoughts scattered fast. So he could still read his mind, Sherlock just has the talent to be the best pair of headphones ever. John lets the baritone flow through his head until he noticed the detective frowning and knitting his eyebrows. John instantly recognised that look and had backed out, Sherlock's face instantly smoothing. John remembers thinking that odd, it's had been years since people could sense his invasion and he knew that he was just as careful, if not more so, than ever.

John smiles at the thought. Of course, he read the cabby's thoughts outside of Baker Street when Sherlock willingly got into the car and followed them. He shot the cabby, he tried to push into Sherlock's mind to see if he was going to take the pill but by the time he focused on it, Sherlock was already onto a different point. John left to dispose of the gun.

"JOHN!" The soldier remembers flinching when he heard Sherlock call his name in his head while sitting in the ambulance with the shock blanket, talking to Lestrade. The detective had just deduced that John had shot the cabby. It was the first time the detective was able to penetrate John's barriers, just like the woman cab driver, back when John saved the little girl all those years ago. At that point, John should have known that Sherlock would have a knack for infiltrating his mind uninvited. The man has no physical boundaries, while would mental ones be any different.

Sherlock is the only one who has the ability to unwillingly call out to John, getting passed his barriers. Surprisingly, the detective is completely oblivious to both his mental callings and John's gift in general. The doctor is amused that the World's Only Consulting Detective is unable to deduce John's ability.

Most importantly, the soldier finds it a relief, who knows how Sherlock would react. The genius would probably kick John out for being a freak. Or, the younger man would hand the doctor over to Mycroft, John shudders at the thought of being the elder Holmes's test subject.

"John!" He hears Sherlock shout from the sitting room just as he enters, looking at the robe clad genius laying on the sofa. "Oh good you are here. You are Fast." Sherlock says not looking away from the ceiling.

"What?" John asks moving to the kitchen out of habit.

_"Phone."_ Sherlock demands echo through John. He sees the phone on the kitchen table, reaches for it and turns to head back to the couch absentmindedly,

"Phone," Sherlock says, John already halfway there. Sherlock takes the phone and John heads back to start the kettle.

John stills, _"Come on Watson, you have to be less obvious."_ He chastises himself at his stupidity. John curses inwardly at his obviousness as he habitually makes two cups of tea.

_"Maybe he just thinks you know his needs."_ John reassures himself as he goes back into the sitting room. He drops all of his tension about the situation and refuses to call anymore attention to his slip up, that would just make Sherlock more curious.

John places Sherlock's mug, the detective texting to rapidly to notice, on the coffee table in front of him while John sits on his chair, grabbing his laptop in the process. John opens up his blog and starts typing, occasionally sipping from his cuppa.

"We've got a case." Sherlock says bluntly after a few minutes.

"Oh?" John says half listening. "You don't seem very excited." He adds, looking up from his laptop.

_"Dull."_ He hears in his head, not really sure if its Sherlock's thought or if he just knows the detective really well.

"Dull." Sherlock says flatly and John sighs.

"Then why are you taking it?" John questions, his full attention onto Sherlock. The detective is now standing up, his arms crossed.

"Aren't you glad that I'm just leaving the flat." Sherlock huffs annoyed, walking away to get changed.

"Fine, fine. I suppose you're right." John calls after him. "You haven't left the flat in three days." John remarks closing his laptop and washing out his half full tea sadly.

_"Dull."_

"I don't see whats the difference between being bored outside and being bored inside the flat." Sherlock says, walking swiftly into the kitchen, making John jump slightly at his sudden appearance.

"I don't know fresh air and all of that." John responds turning to face the genius.

_"John._" John hears the contempt and 'idiot' tone even in his head.

"The air is just as fresh inside the flat as it is outside." Sherlock says petulantly.

_"I win."_

"Fine." John says waving his arms in the air. "You right, you win. Where to?" Sherlock grins.

"Lestrade texted the address. Come along, John." The genius states sweeping out of the room, grabbing his coat and scarf on the way out.

_"The game is on."_ John sighs and follows wordlessly.

* * *

><p>They arrive at the crime scene, it's tumultuous with activity. Usually, the incoherent muffled thoughts of the crowd would have been too overwhelming for John, but with his own personal silencer, John is able to follow the detective under the police tape and into the crime scene completely headache free.<p>

During crime scenes is the only time John indulges slightly. He opens up and lets Sherlock's mind flow. He rarely ever reads Sherlock's mind, he respects the man's privacy too much. Even though the genius has burst into the bathroom, while John's in there, showering, on more than one occasion.

When he does read Sherlock's mind it's only when the younger man is deducing.

Today is no different, John's curiosity wins and he soon finds himself leaning against the door frame, listening to Sherlock's deductions as they flow gracefully into the doctor's mind. All the while, John keeps a stoic and patient look on his face.

John is always amazed when he hears Sherlock thinking and deductions. His thoughts are well formed but scattered. Thoughts and ideas and deductions echo throughout John.

The woman in front of them was an adulteress. She was hiding from her husband who found out she was having affairs, at least according to the rings that Sherlock is thinking about currently. John drops his eyes to the areas of the body when Sherlock calls them out in his mind, deducing their reasons and motives behind certain items on the woman's body.

John gazes at the woman's ankles when Sherlock notices the dirt, John follows the detective's line of thought. He moves onto the shoes. They are not expensive but comfortable. There is dust on her jacket.

John revels in the pure genius. He loves this part of Sherlock, his mind is truly amazing. A sudden feeling pulls at John, a pleasant feeling. A feeling of want and desire. This usually happens when he listens to Sherlock thinking. The doctor can't help but think about the attractive man in front of him as the detective deduces seductively.

Sherlock thoughts and following movements stop abruptly, a frown plastering the genius's face. John knows that expression and immediately closes the connection. The doctor got caught up in listening, not paying attention to how long he was listening. The detective could feel an unusual intrusion, Sherlock could feel John, even if the genius is unaware that it actually is John in his brain.

After a moment of Sherlock analysing what's left of John's intrusion, the detective continues roaming around the body. John stays out and doesn't listen this time.

_"John."_

_"Here we go."_ John thinks to himself and remains still, waiting until he is actually called this time. He does not want a repeat of this morning.

"John, what do you think?" Sherlock asks, looking up at the doctor with curious eyes.

The doctor waits a few seconds and then walks over to the body, leaning down close to the lifeless corpse. He scans the victim, looks are her fingers and opens her eyelids. Once he sees the lifeless dark brown pupils of the woman before him, he sighs and closes the eyes.

"Asphyxia, petechial hemorrhage around her neck, not to mention the finger-like bruises." John rattles off and Sherlock listens. "But her eyes are closed." John states quietly as an afterthought.

"Well done." Sherlock comments, sounding actually impressed._ "Remorse."_ The detective thoughts say and John silently agrees.

"Why is it important that her eyes are closed?" Lestrade asks, standing at the door way.

"Remorse, she knew the killer. It wasn't her husband though." John says, casting a sideways glance at Sherlock, the detective's eyebrow is raised. "What? I know things." John states after looking at the disbelieving look that the detective is wearing.

"How do you know it's not the husband?" Sherlock challenges. John's eyes cast down sheepishly.

"I don't know. It just seems to easy to be the husband. It's too obvious." John states.

_"Impressive. Always surprising."_

John tries to stop the smile, he really does, but his grin betrays him and the doctor lowers his head to hide it. John coughs to cover it and stand up, avoiding the detective's eye.

_"Could you be anymore conspicuous today, Watson?"_ John accosts himself.

"You're methods aren't necessary following the lines of evidence and logic but you are right, John. It wasn't the husband." Sherlock says standing. "You are looking for one of her lovers. Probably one who was in love with her." Sherlock adds walking out of the room.

"Wait, how?" Lestrade questions as the detective strides past him and down the stairs.

"Remorse, the killer was remorseful so they closed her eyes." John clarifies. "It indicates that the killer felt guilt. He probably loved the victim."

"Oh my god, you are turning into him." Lestrade chuckles, running a hand through his silver hair.

"That isn't a bad thing." Sherlock calls from the bottom of the stairs.

"Yes, it is." Both Lestrade and John say at the same time. Sherlock's eyes narrow at the two of them.

_"Dull."_

"Come along John," Sherlock snaps ascending the stairs again, heading right to John.

"Lestrade, call me when you have a list of her lovers. It's on her phone in her pocket." Sherlock chides, grabbing John's hand tugging him along. John feels the spark of a starting connection, but it quickly dies. Thank god he remembered the thick gloves when they left.

"Sherlock." John hears the DI yell after him as they leave the flat and jump in a cab.

_"It's six o'clock, it's dinnertime."_

"Hungry? Angelo's?" John asks nonchalantly.

"If you are." Sherlock shrugs noncommittally.

* * *

><p>Dinner passes by without any distractions of the telepathic kind. Sherlock doesn't even unknowingly sends thoughts his way. It is nice and dare John think, blissful.<p>

Of course, this didn't last for long.

Naturally, tonight it was John's turn to get mugged on the way back to Baker Street. Of course, fate would pick this date, this night be the catalyst. The catalyst that will break Rule #10: Sherlock Holmes must never find out.

John and Sherlock are talking as they make their way back to the warm confines of Baker Street, well more the detective is prattling away about one of his new acid experiments that he could now get back to, while John follows half a step behind. The doctor listens, with a little bit more enthusiasm then necessary. This is how it always is with the detective. John listens to him ramble so he isn't distracted enough to listen to the genius's mind.

John feels a hand on his mouth suddenly.

The connection is instantaneous and uninvited, John doesn't even shout or try to get away. He eyes become unfocused and blurred. Flashes burst through his mind at rapid pace, he can feel himself physically bucking against the arms snaked around his torso and arms, to no avail. The doctor futilely wrestles with the link, strong images barrage John's mind, practically immobilizing him. Pictures, spread like wildfire, throughout his brain. He sees a young blond girl, about nine with straight locks, she is sitting at a kitchen table doing homework. A woman stands at the stove, smiling as the girl rambles.

John tries to shake his head to dispel the images. The pictures blur and then John sees a man, an addict, buying drugs off the street. John's mind jumps again, the woman from earlier is screaming. Her words are jumbled but loud, so loud John groans and goes limp in his attackers arms. He doesn't know where he is at, he doesn't know if Sherlock noticed the lack of his presence. All of John's strength is fading as the very strong and very unpleasant link continues.

John vaguely thinks that he has never had a connection this strong before and another picture of the man emerges, this time he is surrounded by four other men. The group is beating up a couple in an alleyway. John is forced to witness the memories with distaste. The man and his buddies roam over the couple, robbing them of their money and belongings. The group of muggers leave the woman and the man, bruised and bleeding as they run away. John struggles slightly, disoriented and not sure how much time has passed.

_"John!"_

John's thoughts are faintly distracted by the detective's worried baritone. The doctor sees more and more memories of muggings and brutal beatings, they light up his brain.

_"John!"_

The attackers grip loosens slightly and the doctor instinctively bucks against the human restraints with sudden force. John shakes the hand over his mouth causing it to fall away. He pulls against the two arms around him. The muggers are caught off guard and let go of John without warning. The doctor falls unceremoniously to the ground. The link is severed immediately and without preparation. John screams in pain. He can see the flashes of the little girl and the couple getting beat up streak across his mind. He doesn't move, he feels the cool brick against his body, as he lays curled on his side.

John's head is on fire, he writhes in agony at the severed link. The doctor hears mumbles above him. He feels hands roaming around his body, each touch sending more images to his brain. His defenses are down, the muggers touches are able to link through his clothes, its faint and normally wouldn't be painful, but every touch feels like a burned memory on his mind, imprinting fire of torture and pain on his mind. Inconsequential memories streak through the doctors brain, flashes of women, sometimes places, the tube, a chair in the middle of a room with blood around it, a different little girl, a man smiling warmly down with crinkling icy blue eyes.

John screams out in pain, he feels the blood flow down his face and he knows that this is 'a bit not good'. This is the worse he has ever experienced. John can't think, the memories invading and bewildering the doctor. Suddenly the hands are gone, one by one. John writhes on the ground, the torture splitting his head open, he is twisting and turning. He suddenly realises that he needs to get away. He wonders where Sherlock is? Did they get him too? Was he hurt?

With the sudden thoughts, John tries to push the pain away, he rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself up. For the first time since he was grabbed, John opens his eyes. He is met with darkness. He stands up and immediately pitches to the wall. Cool brick comes in contact with the pads of his fingertips as he leans heavily on the wall. He looks down and sees the waterfall of blood flowing out of his nose and staining his shirt. John tries to breath deeply. A burst of mumbled white noise that he isn't used to, enters his thoughts overwhelming him. He falls to the ground again, his bad shoulder hitting the muddy ground with a painful thud, screaming in pain, rocking back and forth in the muddy pavement below.

_"John!"_ He_ hears_ Sherlock before he actually hears him. Even with the pain, the left over flashes of memory (which are new to John), and the thoughts of London, John can still hear Sherlock's worried thoughts.

As loud as he can muster, "I'm here." But it comes out weak and feeble. The doctor tries to turn towards something, light maybe, the entrance to the alleyway. He sees darkness and memories everywhere. The doctor brings his bloodied hands up to his temples and squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the pain and the memories.

Hands are on him again, John screams out in agony. Flashes burst through his mind, nothing stops, the line of memories blur. He screams until the flashes stop. He can feel the leftover warmth of a hand that was placed on his cheek.

"John. It's me." He hears Sherlock say, the tone unusually worried. The doctor writhes in torment. He opens his eyes and looks at the liquid smoke. Sherlock's eyes are worried and full of concern, distress and anxiety. He senses Sherlock's hands moving towards him again and he yelps. "Just-Just don't touch me." John strangles out. He can feel the dizziness starting and the alley spins.

_"It's a good thing I'm on the ground."_ John thinks darkly, before his passes out.

* * *

><p>Wow. Thanks everyone for the reviews and such.<p> 


	3. You Dumped Ice Water On Me?

Oh my gosh, the response for this story is fantastic, thanks to everyone.

Dudes, I totally have the next three chapters already written and ready to go. I'm on fire. I'm going to wait a day for each chapter just to span it out, unless your reviews persuade me different.

Reviews are loved.

Peace&Love.

* * *

><p>John is in darkness. It is consuming and, frankly, terrifying. He is fully aware of being unconscious, it's the only time where he cannot read thoughts or hear the white noise of London, but nothing can save him from tactile touch.<p>

The doctor loses track of how long he is left in the darkness. He is only able to measure time passing is when flashes of memories would hit him without notice.

The thoughts hurt, his mind is in constant turmoil. John wonders if he is remaining stoic externally. He struggles to break the links but it's useless. After many tries at breaking the connections, John gives up, instead he focuses on trying to break the links safely so they don't do any damage.

The first connection memory is of a woman, red hair, definitely Irish by her accent. She is getting ready for work, her uniform is white and pristine, a medical patch on her arm, she's a paramedic. She flattens and straightens her uniform with pride and a smile. John feels the warmth and pride radiate from the memory. It soothes him. Then the link is gone abruptly, sending waves of suffering through the blackness. John can't see straight, he can't feel his body. Its like his mind is separate and in pain.

Memories flash through his brain at random and painful intervals, a woman holding hands with a man, a mother scolding a teenage girl. A man meeting up with another man at a hotel. The pictures go on and on. He tries to break the connections carefully, only some work, other links sever too quickly and leave him trapped in his own pain.

The next burst of memory is a man, he holds his medical degree certificate with pride. He is smiling, holding his diploma in a robe and graduation cap. More memories shift with the man, following through his life, his marriage, his patients and their smiles. John works at severing the link carefully and internally sighs with relief when the memories stop and the pain subsides temporarily.

The memories flash intermittently for a while and John muddles through his darkness in confusion and boredom, nothing to differentiate between the pain and dull throbs. Suddenly a very strong, very immobilizing single image jump starts his brain.

A man, early forties with graying and receding hair is standing over a woman. The woman's eyes are lifeless and blank, her dark hair a direct contrast to her bright blue blouse. Blood trickles from her head and down her neck, creating a pool of crimson around her, staining the pavement. John doesn't struggle, he can't, the link is strong, stronger than usual and it immobilises the doctor for a split second. The memory must be fresh or particularly daunting. He tries to focus on the man, his eyes are stressed and rimming with red. However, what really worries John is the bat in the man's hand, it's wide wooden edge dripping with blood.

Just as quickly as the memory came, it leaves and without any preparation on John's part.

John's head explodes. He knows that this episode won't go unnoticed. He mentally writhes and fights against the pain. The murdered woman still stays in his mind, torturing him.

Abruptly, all thoughts cease and John finds himself in a deep slumber, where no thoughts can penetrate. For the first time, he actually sleeps.

John awakes to random memories surfacing in his mind. He mentally tenses at the images. The doctor doesn't recognise them at first. The memories are jumbled together, like on string of very different memories playing in fast forward like a movie. John starts to prepare himself, somewhat groggily and it takes a little longer.

The movie slows down significantly and a single memory stops John's thoughts. A man sits in a kitchen, his short blond hair wet and his lips curled up into a smile. John immediately recognises himself. The doctor is eating jam on toast at Baker Street. He doesn't remember this particular event, but then again this is routine for him. Get up, shower, eat, read the paper.

The memories suddenly speed up again on fast forward.

John feels confusion in the darkness, as he watches the blurred line of the memories stroll by harmlessly.

Another pause in the thoughts shows John again, this time leaning against the wall smiling, breathing heaving.

A thought clicks, these are Sherlock's memories. Once John realises he automatically curses himself for not deducing the information earlier.

John has never touched Sherlock without a layer of gloves or clothing between him. The doctor is apprehensive of what he would see, not the memories he is sure those would be pleasant and explain a lot of Sherlock's quirks. No, the doctor is afraid of the connection itself. If Sherlock can push his mental boundaries without realising it, what would happen if John made a tactile connection. The doctor fears for his control of the bond.

Once John realises that he is seeing Sherlock he wonders why the memories don't hurt him, even when they abruptly stop and start as if someone is removing their hand and then replacing after a certain amount of time. He prepares himself for a careful break, but sometimes the touches stop so abruptly that John hadn't gotten the chance. Pain, however, doesn't follow, instead a feeling of cold drifts through the darkness, unpleasant and uncomfortable yes, but not painful. _"Why?"_ He asks himself over and over with no response.

John laughs internally and bitterly at the random thoughts caused by Sherlock. The memories are scattered and speedy, just like Sherlock himself, he should have guessed how jumbled and disbanded his thoughts are.

John sits in the quiet, dark space, waiting to wake up. Sherlock's thoughts haven't come around in a while and John feels lonely.

Suddenly, he feels a physical pull, his mind reels and he feels like his has been flipped upside down.

A string of memories rapidly blur his mind. Sherlock's warmth is back, something is different this time. The physical pull is beckoning him. A sudden jolt of ice cold water pushes the darkness away and John opens his eyes in a gasp, sitting upright in his bed and drenched in water.

* * *

><p>"You dumped <em>what<em> on me?" John asks incredulously, sliding back into his now dry and warm hospital bed.

"Ice water." Sherlock adds, sitting in the hospital chair next to John, his legs crossed and his expression smug.

"What? Why?" John sputters laying comfortably, his hair still damp from the warm shower he took.

"It's perfectly logical, when patients are comatose in order to get them out, one dumps a bucket of cold water on them to break their reverie." Sherlock states matter of fact, inspecting his cuticles shamelessly.

"Yes, I know." John snaps. "I wasn't even technically in a coma. I've only been out for a day." John continues looking at the detective, his voice firm and tetchy.

"Well, I was bored." Sherlock remarks like it's the simplest explanation in the world. John stares back incredulously.

"I wondered if it actually works." Sherlock states looking up at John innocently, "Besides, you were taking to long." He adds with a smirk. _"I was right."_

"Of course you were bloody well right." John states, shivering silently at the memory of the ice cold water soaking him, and the nurses rushing in when his bed weight was suddenly gone. They came in to see John out of bed, dripping onto the floor, glaring at Sherlock who was trying to not laugh at the soaked puppy in front of him.

"Well, I don't know what you are on about," The detective huffs. "You woke up, didn't you?"

"It wasn't about time too, there was no reason for you to be unconscious." The genius comments, looking at the doctor suspiciously.

Of course, John knows there was nothing wrong with him, he is in the hospital because of his gift. It knocked him unconscious while his body recovers from the mental trauma.

"You gave the hospital staff a scare when they couldn't find damage." Sherlock states, "You looked like you had been stabbed." John continues to stare into the gray eyes. John winces slightly. For a split second, a flash of a bloodied John escapes Sherlock's mind and crosses mentally into the doctor's thoughts. He can feel the terror and concern from the image. John sighs and casts he eyes downward.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." John states, looking at his hands sheepishly.

_"What?"_

"It's not your fault." Sherlock states simply, frowning, his face confused.

_"Shite. Get it together._" John thinks to himself.

"But I'm sorry. It was just a nosebleed." John states. Sherlock adds an image of his stained shirt to John's thoughts.

"I know...it was...a bit..terrifying." Sherlock struggles to say, vulnerability in his voice. John is mildly surprised at the declaration and his face doesn't hide his surprise.

"Oh, come on, you know I'm not good at," Sherlock starts, "_feelings,_" he scrunches up his noise as he says the word like it physically reeks of the Thames. John chuckles. _"Dull."_

"All the same, it's nice to know you care." John says, lightly.

"I do care, you are my best friend and I couldn't...wouldn't be able to.." Sherlock stammers, his eyes looking at his hands.

"Hey, it's okay, I'm not hurt. It's all fine." John comforts, reaching a hand out for Sherlock without thinking. The detective eyes his hand thoughtfully and then smiles. John doesn't see any of this, he is too distracted by his own thoughtlessness, he starts to retract the hand subtly but Sherlock latches on almost instantly. He looks down at their connected hands.

The connection is strong, but not unpleasant. The fast forwarding thoughts are present but comforting. John remembers the darkness and how soothing the thoughts felt when he was all by himself. The string of thoughts add a warm comfort to John, who is momentarily caught up in the new sensation of this pleasant touching.

Whenever he has had tactile responses they are always uncomfortable and displeasing. Even when he initiates contact, there is always a level of distress. He ignores it usually, because when he instigates, it's for a reason. When the contact is unwelcome, he always feels the same unpleasant feeling but if the connection is broken safely, the feeling disperses with the memories.

He feels none of these troublesome feelings with Sherlock, instead the opposite, he feels warm and safe. The feelings are intriguing and tranquilizing. Without warning, the flashes stop, but their hands remain connected. John frowns and stares down at their hands, then up at Sherlock who is staring straight at him.

_"John."_

He involuntarily blinks at the thoughts intrusion, Sherlock's thought is a little bit more forceful than normal. Why is he not seeing Sherlock's memories? John probes slightly, he tries to bring up memories from within Sherlock's mind but nothing comes up._ "Shite,"_ John thinks to himself. Sherlock frowns and John stops probing, he subtly breaks their hands apart, shifting to make it look unmotivated.

The pair sit in silence, John wonders at the bizarre connection. They were touching but John couldn't pick out the thoughts he wanted. Why?

_"John. I know you can hear me."_ It takes everything in John's power to remain still and not twitch slightly. The doctor remains austere, but his mind is freaking out.

_"How does he know? I knew I was being to obvious. Maybe if I don't acknowledge it."_ John rambles to himself, cursing and mentally tearing his hair out.

_"John. Answer me."_ The command in Sherlock's thoughts is unmistakable, but John forces himself to not give anything away.

_"Stay strong, Watson."_ John thinks to himself.

_"It's a bit too awkward of a silence for you not to be hearing me."_ Sherlock says smirking.

_"Don't answer, don't answer." _John repeats to himself_._

_"Fine," _He hears Sherlock in his mind. John sighs thinking that the detective gave up, he opens his mouth to ask about the events leading up to the attack, because he suddenly finds himself without the recollection and truthfully, the doctor is looking for a subject change.

However, a warm hand falls firmly on the doctor's cheek.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John manages to gasp out as thoughts invade. These thoughts are slower, more deliberate. They fade in and out with enough time for John to analyse them. Memories of the two of them fighting criminals, walking into NSY, talking to Mycroft (whose is sitting in John's chair, which sends waves of anger through Sherlock and into the blond man). Another image of John complaining about body parts and heads. The memories are massive and complex, nothing like John has ever witnessed before.

Why is this stream of thoughts different, how is Sherlock slowing them down? And why, why are they slow now? This isn't how the detective's brain works, it's more muddied and rapid. This is slow and languid.

"Are you controlling that?" John asks before he thinks. He gasps at his own question. He is screwed now. The doctor sees Sherlock smile and the thoughts stop, but his hands remain flush against his face. John stares wildly into Sherlock's eyes. John pulls the detective's hands off his face and tries to get away. John wants to jump off the bed, run out of the hospital, hide in a hole, anything, he just needs to get away.

Hands clasp onto his bare forearms, trapping the doctor. John instinctively tenses at the contact, but nothing comes. John stills. He can feel the connection but there is no thoughts, no memories, not even London white noise.

John is overwhelmed, he starts to breath rapidly. He pushes Sherlock's hands off and gets off the bed. He starts pacing the hospital room at this conundrum.

_"I knew it."_ John ignores the thought, his own mind racing in confusion, he doesn't need to add Sherlock just yet.

_"John."_ Why didn't he see anything when they touched?

_"John."_ Why does Sherlock ceased the white noise?

_"John."_ How can the detective control his thoughts, control what John sees and what he doesn't see?

_"John."_ The doctor is becoming agitated, How can Sherlock know?

_"John."_ Why doesn't the connection hurt with Sherlock?

_"John."_

"For Christ sake, Sherlock, what?" John screams, irritation and annoyance evident in his pacing form. When Sherlock doesn't answer, he looks up and sees the devilish smirk.

"Shite." John says out loud. The detective crosses the room, around the bed and stands in front of John, careful not to touch him.

"I knew it." He states, his eyes alive. _"I knew you were interesting."_

"You never thought like this though," John states and Sherlock's eyes light up in, dare he think it, glee, utter glee. _"Not dull."_

"Yes, definitely not dull." John states defeated, not even bothering with pretenses, he knows, why hid it now?


	4. You Are Not A Freak

Hello Lovelies, I'm on a roll with this fic. Also, this one is the shortest, but I'll put up the next chapter soon

Reviews are welcome.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p><em>Just for clarification, <em>

_John has three parts to his gifts. _

_1. He can hear thoughts of people in London, usually for about a two miles radius. It's annoying and terribly like white noise. However, whenever he is around Sherlock the white noise stops. He doesn't know why, he thinks of Sherlock as his own silencer or pair of headphones. _

_2. If John concentrates he can actually hear an individual's thoughts. He rarely does this because he doesn't want to invade in the privacy of others. He has to be in the direct eye line of the person to read their thoughts usually, unless on certain occasions. Sherlock is the only person who he hears without trying. He can hear Sherlock if his generally in the vicinity, regardless of walls. He hasn't tested how far his distance with Sherlock is. _

_3. The most powerful part of John's gift is the tactile method. When he touches or someone touches his bare skin, he is able to delve into others memories. They come in thoughts and images. He was able to help comatose patients in his early years by finding the darkness they were in and talking him through it to make them wake. When he connects with another person, he feels slight discomfort and unpleasant feelings. It's tolerable but it's always present. Connections are tricky for John, when he is connected with someone, their minds are connected, so if the link is broken before John is prepared, dire consequences happen. He passes out, gets nosebleeds, dizzy, etc. Sherlock is, so far, the only person who is able to touch him without painful connection breaks or the general discomfort. Sherlock is also able to turn off his thoughts when he touches John, unbeknownst to both of them. _

_John mastered his skills, this allowed him to enter people's thoughts without them knowing and keep his face and physical features in check to not give away what he is doing._

* * *

><p>John and Sherlock stare at each other, face to face in the middle of the hospital room. Sherlock's hands are flexing in excitement. The doctor is blocking out Sherlock's thoughts on purpose. The telepath doesn't want to know what the taller man in front of him is thinking. He turns his head away slowly, breaking the eye contact for the first time in several minutes.<p>

"Are you listening?" Sherlock asks out loud as John slowly paces around the room, he stress evident.

"No, I'm not." John remarks nonchalantly. The detective lets out a huff of annoyance.

"You can turn it off?" Sherlock asks, genuinely surprised, I guess telepathy is out of the realm of the World's Only Consulting Detective.

"Well, that's not quite how it works." John sighs and walks over to the bed, sitting down on it. His mind races, sadness overwhelming him. Any second now, the detective is going to announce how much of a freak John is and kick him out. John will have no choice but to go back to being an invalid and probably live a very boring life with only the surgery for company.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock questions, deducing John's tense form. "Are you listening now?" Sherlock adds seconds later, hopefulness in his voice.

"No. I just-I'm thinking about what I need to pack." John mutters quietly, not looking at the detective.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "You are not leaving." Sherlock commands and then seconds later adds, "Unless you want to."

John stares up at Sherlock, his eyes refusing the meet the doctor. John sighs.

"No, I want to stay," John says hurriedly, "but I...just...do you want to live..with a freak like me." John mutters, calling himself a freak out loud for the first time in years. Right now, it's the truth, it's how he feels under the scrutiny of the detective.

"You are not a freak." The younger man states straightforwardly. John stares up at Sherlock and sees the vulnerable eyes, the anxiety and the doubt. Sherlock really wants John to stay.

"Are you sure, living with someone who can...know what you are thinking?" John pauses slightly, afraid to call out the elephant in the room.

"Can you hear me all the time?" Sherlock rebuttals with a smirk.

"No, that's not really how it works." John remarks.

"I don't want you to go." Sherlock states bluntly, the detective sits down in a hospital chair opposite the doctor. John stares in shock at the genius's declaration, it is the closet thing to a confession of caring that John has ever gotten or will ever get and he can't help but smile.

Sherlock smiles back and continues talking, now that John is at ease.

"Tell me how it works?" The genius asks, tentatively, but John notices the sudden excitement and enthusiasm in Sherlock's voice. _"Please."_

John scowls lightly, Sherlock knew how to get his way.

"Git," John mutters smiling, shifting to sit with his back against the elevated bed frame.

The door opens just as John thinks about telling his story. A nurse walks in, interrupting John's line of thought. They both stare at the brunette nurse who smiles as she enters the room, holding a clip board. Sherlock huffs impatiently and slouches dramatically in his chair.

"How are you Mr. Watson?" The nurse asks,

"Doctor." The detective mumbles in annoyance.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson." She adjusts, still smiling, unfazed by the six foot form of a sulking detective, who is actually behaving. "I'm Emily." She adds checking his vitals, very careful not to touch the doctor, she checks the IV and writes down notes on her clipboard.

"I'm fine thank you, Emily. Do you know when I can leave?" John asks hopeful, slightly confused at how the nurse was doing her job without touching him.

"The doctor should come up within the hour to talk to you." Emily states, her grin almost blinding and becoming slightly annoying to John. With a last nod, she leaves the room and shuts the door.

"Finally!" Sherlock yells, "You were going to start." The detective adds, glaring at the closed door and sitting up straight once again, the genius's enthusiasm returning.

"Hang on," John speaks, his eyebrows knitting in confusion. "Why wasn't she touching me?" The doctor inquires, still staring at the door the nurse exited through. Her job would have been easier and faster if she had touched him. Surely the staff doesn't know. Do they?

_"John."_

John's head snaps back to the younger man. "Just because you push your thoughts at me, doesn't mean you don't have to talk." John snaps, confused and annoyed.

"I beg to differ." Sherlock responds haughtily, unfazed by John's biting tone.

"I told them not to touch you." The detective speaks simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and to the detective it probably was.

"What? Wait...Why?" The doctor questions, rambling.

"You reacted badly to touch, you did in the alleyway and when the nurses would touch you." Sherlock says looking at John. John nods distantly. "You had multiple episodes. The doctors didn't know what to think." Sherlock remarks.

_"Idiots." _John chuckles._  
><em>

"Well, they aren't necessarily equip to deal with...this." John says gesturing to his brain. Sherlock nods.

"A brain specialist came in and touched you. You freaked out, they had to sedate you." Sherlock says, looking away from John. An image of himself writhing and screaming filled his mind. Sherlock witnessed this episode, John can feel the worry, distress, and panic radiate from the image.

"I'm sorry," John mumbles quietly,

"It was that man who did it." Sherlock spits out with disgust. "After that, nobody was allowed to touch you."

"How did you manage that?" John questions curiously.

"Turns out Mycroft has hospital acquaintances. A threat from him and the nurses complied rather quickly." Sherlock answers with his brows knit, as if the thought of Mycroft helping reeked.

"That must have hurt, to ask for help." John chuckles lightly. Sherlock shrugs.

_"You are worth it."_

John's cheek blush scarlet, an involuntary reaction. Two proclamations of caring in one day, it is a good day.

"Wait, was the specialist balding?" John asks suddenly remembering the murder.

"Yes. He was having an affair and his wife recently left him." Sherlock shrugs complacently, a slight smile on his face. John raises an eyebrow in the detective's direction. _"Oh come, you should be used to it by now."_

John snorts. "Hmph, martial problems to the extreme. He murdered his wife... Or his mistress. Whichever one is the brunette." Sherlock's eyes widen.

"The mistress, there is always something." Sherlock mutters.

"Wait, how do you know? Did you read his mind? What was it like? How did you do it?" Sherlock asks his eyes wide, practically bouncing up and down in excitement.

"Calm down." John scolds, holding his hands up in defense.

_"John."_ Sherlock whines in his head.

The door opens and a doctor walks in. John recognises him from the man he saw graduate while unconscious.

"Hello Doctor, I'm Dr. Marsh." John nods and smiles. Sherlock flails back and sighs theatrically, his arms jutted out and legs straight. He looks ridiculous, but John chooses to ignore the petulant man-child.

"When can I go home?" John questions immediately, ignoring formalities.

"Dr. Watson, you've been unconscious for a day and there is no excuse or reason for it." Dr. Marsh explains plainly.

"There is nothing wrong with me, Doctor." John remarks. "No external damage, abrasions, lacerations or internal bleeding. The nosebleed was extravagant, yes, but not uncommon for me." The doctor prattles, he just wants to go home to his tea and his own bed.

_"Dull."_

"Still, none of it explains the fact that you were unconscious and remained unconscious." The portly man in front of him says confidently.

John sighs and glances over at Sherlock. The detective is staring at the ceiling, completely bored with the conversation.

"And I'm sure you've run MRIs and cat scans and they found nothing." John continues, this time more firmly. Dr. Marsh nods, his face already defeated. "This isn't a rarity for me, and it's something I'm used to." John adds looking into Dr. Marsh's eyes. "There is nothing to worry about and I'm sure you could use the bed."

The portly man sighs in resignation.

T"I'll get the discharge papers." Dr. Marsh remarks.

"Thank you doctor." John states as the man leaves the room.

_"Jesus."_

"John will do just fine." The telepath says chuckling.

"That's not fair." Sherlock snorts, not moving from his dramatic pose. John glances at the detective and then lets his eyes dart lazily around the room, the pair of them resting in a comfortable silence.

"Am I ever going to find out?" Sherlock asks after several minutes, he takes slow and lazy movements and eventually sits up in his chair. "Or are you just going to make me guess?"

"You never guess." John says in mock appall.

Sherlock huffs and keeps his thoughts quiet.

"I'll tell you, once we are back at the flat." John smiles. "I want to leave."

Sherlock beams back at him.

"You know, I really am glad you are all right, John." Sherlock states sheepishly.

The doctor nods pleasantly. "Me too, Sherlock. Me too."


	5. Disappointingly Cliche

Hello all, 3,900+ words, aren't you guys lucky.

fortunecookiesthesecond told me she loved me for updating so soon. So because of them you all get Chapter 5 immediately.

Reviews are lovely, and can sometimes mean presents.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>Within two hours, John and Sherlock are sitting in their respective chairs in 221B Baker Street.<p>

Mrs. Hudson fussed over John as they came in. He quickly reassured the landlady that he was okay and they both retreated to their flat.

Mrs. Hudson had brought up tea and biscuits for them, which Sherlock actually thanked her for, much to the surprise of John.

John gratefully grabbed some biscuits and tea and now they both sit staring at each other, the doors shut, curtains drawn and voices in a whisper.

Well, it is more like Sherlock is staring at John as the doctor slowly drinks and eats, while barraging him with mental questions that John is fruitfully ignoring.

"Are you ignoring me on purpose?" Sherlock questions impatiently after ten minutes of silence.

"No, I'm enjoying this tea." He states simply, smiling innocently at the detective.

_"John!"_ The whining tone is back.

"Fine. Fine." John gives in, placing his now empty mug next to him. Sherlock moves enthusiastically, jumping slightly, bringing his legs up and wrapping his long lanky arms around his knees, rocking back and forth like a child listening to an exciting story.

John probes into the detective's thoughts. _"Finally, Finally. Yes. Not boring. I'm so excited."_ He hears Sherlock's happy thoughts and John smiles. Sherlock stops rocking and looks straight at John causing the doctor to back out, his face neutral.

"Were you just listening?" The genius asks, his head cocked to one side. John's eyes dart away and the doctor nods sheepishly.

_"I knew it."_ Sherlock's thought screams, breaking the mental barriers. John grips his head at the loudness, grunting in the sudden pain.

"Sherlock! Don't think so loud." John gripes as the thought subsides.

_"Now you know how I feel."_ John hears, this time more quietly, and the doctor chuckles.

"So, what do you want to know?" John asks.

"Everything!" The younger man squeals and Sherlock immediately clears his throat at the unexpected noise.

John giggles, "Well, where should I start?" The doctor is suddenly nervous and unsure. He has never told anyone this and its nerve wracking to say his secret out loud. John fears the detective will hate him by the end, call the doctor a freak and throw him away.

_"John. Stop thinking and continue."_

"Right." John nods, looking out the window into London. The younger man seems so happy and enthusiastic, and Sherlock already reassured him once. The doctor swallows thickly and looks at the detective.

"Start from the beginning of course, I'm told that's where stories start." Sherlock states and then adds, "How?"

"I'm not really sure, I died." John shrugs, bringing his eyes back to Sherlock's face, staring into the liquid storm.

"You died?" The genius exclaims, his fingers drumming excitedly across his knees.

The doctor nods. "I was dead for three minutes, someone pulled me out and gave me CPR." John remarks, getting lost in the memory. "I saw a white light," John continues, "it was disappointingly cliche, I'm afraid."

The detective snorts and John smiles faintly.

"And then you were revived and you could read people's mind." Sherlock deduces, his eyes darting with delight.

"Yeah, I guess. It was really confusing in the beginning, I thought I was going crazy." John shudders at the memories of himself wandering aimlessly around the streets trying to block out the thoughts. "All the noise, it wasn't normal and I was positive that I was mad."

"The noise?" Sherlock questions.

"Right," John realises, the detective has no idea what or how John ability works. "I can always hear people," The telepath starts looking at Sherlock, "not in the traditional sense, none of their thoughts are coherent. They are mumbled and completely unreadable, but they are always there. Its like a white noise." John states, placing his hands uncomfortably on his knees. He can't stop moving them around in his discomfort, Sherlock's gaze forcing itself into John's nervousness, his scrutiny intense.

"You can hear people, but not coherently?" Sherlock asks, seeming to understand.

"Yes, it's terribly annoying." John adds for good measure, grabbing the tea mug, knowing that its empty but he needs something to do with his hands so he can stop fidgeting, "Not so much now."

"What do you mean?" Curiosity etched permanently onto the detective's face.

"You, um, you block out the noise." John mutters, rubbing the back of his head, uncomfortable.

"Me? I silence them." Sherlock asks incredulous. John nods.

_"How?"_

"I don't know." The doctor sighs.

Sherlock seems to contemplate this. _"Putting it aside for experimentation."_

"Sherlock!" John exasperates.

"But if you can't understand them normally, how can you read my mind?" The detective asks, ignoring John's protest.

"The 'white noise' is only a part." John starts, sighing, letting out all of the tension he can muster. He's never shared this with anyone, not even Harry. He was convinced for a long time that he was a freak and he honed his skills so he wouldn't get into situations that he had to explain.

However, he never blamed his gift, sure it is unusual and definitely a freak of nature but he never once regretted his gift. The doctor doesn't know if he can explain it right or how the detective will react. All the John knows is that he's a better man because of his gift.

_"John, stop reminiscing." _Sherlock's voice interrupts John's thought process. The doctor chuckles at Sherlock's huffy intrusion.

_"It isn't the first time and it probably won't be the last."_ John thinks to himself._  
><em>

"Do you know how terribly messed up this is?" John questions, Sherlock raising an eyebrow. "You read my mind and then proceed to voice your findings, which I then, hear in my mind."

Sherlock snorts at the irony. _"I don't read your mind. I deduce, come on, John."_ John snorts while Sherlock chuckles.

"What is the other part?" Sherlock questions, ignoring John's complaints.

"The other part is that I can read individual minds. Like how I know that your mind is racing about all the experiments that you can submit me to." John states probing the genius's thoughts. "And No, I'm not an experiment."

Sherlock's face falls slightly. _"They wouldn't be harmful."_

"No, Sherlock." The doctor says firmly, as the detective huffs.

_"Fine." _The genius leans back into his chair, his face turned upright, not looking at John. The detective is sulking.

John just waits and after a minute or two of quiet, dramatic rejection, Sherlock asks, "How? How do you get pass the white noise?"

"Focusing, I can narrow in on an individual and their thoughts, read what they are thinking at that moment in time and then leave them be." John answers simply.

"So, before, I could feel a tug in mind, like a finger poking my brain very lightly. That was you?" The younger man inquires.

"I honestly don't know," John states, "I don't know what it feels like for people."

"I spent a year focusing on invading thoughts mastering how to go unnoticed." John reflects. "You are the first person since the beginning who's noticed."

_"Why?"_

"I don't know." John sighs. "But, I can only initiate thoughts, most of the time." He adds a minute later.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. _"Most of the time?"_

John exhales, he knows the detective is enjoying this, if he doesn't haven't speak he won't. _"I've created a monster."_ John thinks darkly.

"There has been two experiences when thoughts have broken my mental barriers." John remarks, "One, a long time ago, involved a cabby, her thoughts invaded my mind while I was walking down the street. I ended up pulling at a little girl out of the street, saving her from getting killed by the distressed cabby." John says casting his eyes to look at the mug idly as he remembers the face on the distraught mother and the little girl smiling at him.

The detective nods in understanding.

_"What's the other occasion?"_

"You." John states simply, gripping his mug tightly at his confession. He looks at the genius, smiling a little bit at the confused expression.

"You frequently invade my thoughts. Usually it's just my name when you need me to do something or when you are distressed, sometimes when you sleep." John comments sheepishly, not looking at Sherlock. "Other times I just hear your declarations of boredom." John proclaims. "And I don't know why."

Sherlock frowns at the statement, furrowing his brows.

"You don't do it on purpose," John adds quickly. "Leave it to you to break my mental barriers." John smiles, his eyes scanning the room, a little bit bashful.

Sherlock doesn't speak, his face contorting in his thinking expression and John grows tense in the silence. THe doctor forces himself not to listen in on the detective's thoughts.

"I also don't probe people's thoughts unless absolutely necessary." The doctor remarks, trying to change the subject.

Sherlock snaps out of his thinking face and raises an eyebrow. "Last time I checked, a crime scene isn't what I would consider a priority." The detective observes and John blushes sheepishly.

"Maybe not." John says finally. "I like hearing you deduce. It's fascinating. I'm sorry." He adds, looking away from the gray eyes in front of him.

"Don't be." Sherlock says, smiling, no hint of anger or disappointment in his voice. _"I am very brilliant."_

John snorts and raises his eyebrows at the smug dramatics.

"So, you can hear people's mind but not unless you focus in on the thoughts, otherwise it's white noise of mumbled and incoherent strings of insignificant thoughts?" Sherlock asks, clarifying and John nods in confirmation.

"You never touch people, and go still when someone touches you." Sherlock inquires, leaning forward slightly.

John sighs, of course Sherlock would notice. He was a fool to think that he could get it past the detective. "It's the last part, a tactile method." John speaks, wringing his hand against the mug's handle. "When someone touches me, a connection gets established. With the link, I can explore every memory, every thought the person has or has had." The doctor finishes.

"It's it painful?" Sherlock asks suddenly.

"It depends." John breaths. "The brain is very fragile. Normally, the link offers a slight feeling of discomfort."

_"Then why do you do it?"_

"Its tolerable, I'm prepared for it when I initiate contact. If someone touches me unannounced, it's a little bit more uncomfortable but still tolerable." John sighs, "The problem lays when breaking the connection. That's why I didn't fight the muggers. They touched me and their thoughts were strong and unsolicited." John exhales, "They immobilised me." John adds, the shame and self-deprecation lacing the tone acidly.

Silence passes quietly. Sherlock's fingers in a steeple under his chin like normal, while John reflects about the time with his muggers.

_"What happens?"_

"When I'm not prepared or someone breaks the connection prematurely, it traumatizes my brain. Nosebleeds, dizziness, and blackouts are usually what happens. I've never been unconscious for this long before, however." John states.

_"They broke the link?"_

"Sort of, that was part of the problem, the other part is the man who gagged me, something about his mind was strong, he was able to keep me still because his thoughts and images caught me off guard. Which is hard to do, by the way." John says, "The reason I was unconscious is because they broke the connection before I could gather my wits and prepare." He adds. "I don't remember much after the severed link."

_"That's never happened before?"_

"Immobilising me with strong thoughts? No, most people don't usually have that strong of hold on me." John adds, gripping the mug in his hand, white knuckles showing.

_"So it was a combination of catching you off guard and his images."_

"Yes, and I think he was high." John states bluntly, remember the images of the man getting drugs.

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock asks, his eyes wide with interest.

John shrugs. "The man is an addict, I saw it. I think he was with the other four to get money for his addiction. Either the drugs or his little girl." John states, "The five of them ended up with my wallet, didn't they?" John questions sadly.

_"Five?"_

Sherlock looks at John. "There were only two. Did you actually see five?"

"No. I- when the man touched me, I saw other muggings, a group of five men." John states confused.

Sherlock's eyes widen. _"Ah."_

"I don't know, maybe I was wrong." John exhales.

_"Have you ever seen something wrong before?"_

"No." The doctor breaths.

_"Then you aren't wrong."_

The doctor contemplates this, there were five in the images but only two attacked him. Why? Why is that important?

_"It will help us catch them John." _John nods absentmindedly.

"You are enjoying this? The whole not talking out loud thing, aren't you?" John asks.

_"Maybe."_ Sherlock chuckles.

Another minutes of silence envelop the pair again.

"But," Sherlock suddenly starts, "I've seen you touch people and not tense up." Sherlock states, confusion thick.

"The power of gloves." John says holding up his hands and wiggling his fingers.

"Skin to skin contact." Sherlock deduces, nodding slightly.

John nods. Sherlock stares at the doctor pensively.

"Is this why you are a doctor?" The detective asks.

"No. I don't use this when I'm with a patient." John answers rapidly, gesturing to his mind.

"Why not?" Sherlock genuinely surprised.

"Because I don't like feeling like a fraud. I'm perfectly capable of learning and diagnosing people without help." John snaps lightly. Sherlock just continues to stare at him.

_"I see."_

John exhales, relaxing a little bit.

_"Is the gift annoying?"_

"Oh, god yes." John exclaims, "But I'm used to it."

* * *

><p>"So, what happened?" John asks, they had been sitting in the chairs for hours, Sherlock quizzing him, out loud and mentally. John suspected him of experiments, but he let the detective ask whatever he wants, plus John wants to have his own experiments to. He is insanely curious how Sherlock is the only person who can touch him without memories or thoughts taking over the doctor's mind. So he lets the genius play and he will cash in his own experiments another time.<p>

Sherlock's face fell. "I'm sorry, John."

John eyes shot up to the younger man.

"Whatever for?" John asks. "You saved me."

_"I didn't notice right away."_ Guilt coursing through his thoughts. " I looked back and you were gone. I heard nothing."

"It's not your fault, they grabbed me and caught us both off guard." John soothes.

"I back tracked and followed you into the alley. It was like a maze." John sees the bricks and alleyway flashing across Sherlock's frantic thoughts.

"I quickly realized where they would take you and then I heard you, it was quiet but I ran towards the sound. They had taken you further into the alley than I had originally thought." Sherlock sighs, standing up and pacing the floor. John watches him with sad eyes. He resists the urge to probe the genius's thoughts and lets the man think to himself.

"When I came upon you, if you weren't moving I would have thought you were dead. Blood was everywhere." John listens and sees his own writhing form on the ground. He feels the panic and fear that Sherlock experienced. He can see in the detective's thoughts how he had frozen in shock. John tenses as the thoughts force there way into his mind.

"It's okay, I don't blame you, it wasn't your fault." John says, trying to stand up, fighting off the flashes. The images float in their mind and cause John's eyes to go unfocused. The doctor witnesses himself screaming when Sherlock tries to touch him.

The doctor makes a struggled noise to explain to Sherlock, but another image invades his mind quickly. He watches Sherlock sit down next to John, saying comforting words as the paramedic checking John's vitals and moving her hands randomly over the doctor's body. Her flaming red hair, a stark contrast to the dull brick around them.

"She was Irish." John gasps out, eyes unseeing. The next images are a blur of blood and hospitals. He feels panic, fear, anger, confusion, and relief. The images are strong, even for Sherlock and John double checks that he isn't probing.

"Sh-sherlock." John exhales breathy. The detective's emotions overwhelming him and his breathing becomes laboured. Suddenly, the images stop and John is panting heavily, trying to catch his breath.

_"John."_ Warm hands are on his face, he tenses when the connection starts. Pain doesn't follow nor do any thoughts. The hands are immediately removed, coldness in their place.

"I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?" Sherlock asks, John's eyes refocus and fix on Sherlock kneeling before him.

"Nope, I'm fine," The doctor says waving a hand dismissively. "You think too loudly for your own good." He adds chuckling.

"You weren't probing." A statement not a question. John shakes his head.

_"Why?"_ Sherlock stands in turmoil.

"Are you sure that it didn't hurt, I touched you, I didn't mean to." Sherlock rambles.

"No its fine. Your touches don't hurt." John says before thinking, distracted by finally catching his breath. The detective swirls around sits in the chair opposite. He is on the edge of his seat and studying John like he's the world's greatest puzzle. In some aspects, he kind of is.

"They did in the alleyway." Sherlock tenses.

"All my barriers were down in the alleyway, any contact hurt. Through my clothes, through the paramedics gloves. No matter who or where, I hurt." John explains.

_"You saw a flash of the paramedic while you were unconscious." _Sherlock nods distantly.

"Yes, I saw flashes of anyone who touched me while I was unconscious, including you. Your touches were the only ones that didn't hurt no matter how abrupt the connection was severed." John states grinning.

_"Why?"_ Sherlock asks incredulously.

"I don't know. You are breaking all of the limitations I thought I once had." John sighs.

"So, I silence the noise, I invade your mind with my thoughts, and when I used tactile method, there is no pain or recollection of my memories." Sherlock states, mumbling more to himself than to John, as if checking off a list.

"Well, not exactly." John interrupts, "When you touch me, sometimes I can see the memories, I just don't have control with you. You control what I see."

_"I don't control it." _

"To a certain extent you do, you show me what you want me to see or don't want me to see or sometimes you just silence everything. I'm not able to hear your thoughts or memories or the people around me. Its kind of refreshing actually." John remarks. "Mostly, your thoughts and memories are just a string of ideas and flashes that are too fast for me to read."

Sherlock seems to ponder this for a while and suddenly cups a hand to John's face. John doesn't flinch this time, he waits for something but nothing comes. "Are you trying to show me something?"

Sherlock doesn't answer for a few minutes.

"Yes. Is it working? I've been asking you mentally for a few minutes."

"No, I don't see anything. Or hear anything." John's eyes widen in shock. "I couldn't hear you at all when you touched me." Sherlock sighs impatiently, while John revels in the characteristic of Sherlock Holmes.

"Are you ready, I'm going to let go." Sherlock asks, kind of sweetly.

"You don't have to worry about that, another one of your quirks is that no matter how abrupt the connection it never hurts with you. Before you ask, no, I don't know why." John states.

"This is slightly alarming." Sherlock states hesitantly letting his hands drop, still afraid of hurting the doctor.

John shrugs, "I'm used to weird and alarming." He states, standing up and moving to the kitchen, rinsing his mug.

He hears Sherlock walking into the kitchen.

_"John."_

John sighs contently.

"Why are you here?" John hears Sherlock lean against the door frame.

"What do you mean?" The doctor cleans his mug and sets it down to dry.

"Why do you stay? I inhibit your ability." Sherlock sighs sadly.

"Now, for a genius you really are stupid." John says turning to face the detective, leaning against the counter. Sherlock's nose scrunches up at the term.

"Everyday since I died, I never thought I would be normal again, then you came in and day by day, not only saved me from the mundane and horrible life, but you gave me silence when I didn't even think I wanted it." John states, feeling vulnerable. "You, in your weird and erratic life, create a sense of normal."

"Well, that's...terrifying." Sherlock states, smiling.

"Don't I know it." John replies.


	6. Anything To Save the Walls

I'm making them slash, I hope everyone is okay with that. I've been debating, but the fact that John has a tactile gift, of course Sherlock would experiment with kissing, not to mention that Sherlock has been secretly crushing on the doctor.

I don't really expect hardcore smut unless people tell me otherwise. The next two chapters will probably be fluff and experiments.

I appreciate all of the amazing reviews.

I like fast updating.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>Business carries on as usual and to John's relief their friendship hasn't changed. In fact, John and the detective have become closer, well, as close as Sherlock can get to someone.<p>

The only thing that is different is Sherlock mentally demands things instead of asks for them, to which the doctor ignores. John refuses to encourage the genius's laziness.

Sherlock has either gotten better at making his thoughts known, or John has gotten weaker since the attack in the alley.

Nowadays, Sherlock thoughts reverberate in John's head more often than not.

"I'm bored, please John. Please let me do an experiment." Sherlock begs one Saturday. John isn't on shift with the surgery and is resting on his much needed day off.

"No," John answers firmly. "How can you be bored? We just got back from a case last night." John adds calmly, still watching the telly as he munches on his breakfast. His legs are still sore from running half way across London the night before looking for a murderer. They caught the guy just as he was about to jump off the Waterloo bridge.

_"Dull."_

"That was last night, I'm bored now." Sherlock huffs petulantly and flops himself face down onto the couch.

_"Oh great, Sherlock is going to be sulking all day long." _John sighs.

"I told you no. My mind is not an experiment." John says firmly, getting up from his chair and putting his dishes in the sink. He scrubs the dishes as the other room emits silence._  
><em>

_"Dull."_

John huffs, finishing the drying. He is about to go out and leave Sherlock to his own sulk when he hears, "John, where is your gun?"

Within fifteen minutes they are both out the door. Sherlock dragging John somewhere 'experiment worthy'.

They walk slowly along Baker Street, towards Regents Park.

"I'm only agreeing to this so you don't shoot holes in the wall." John comments, irritated that the detective can manipulate John so easily. "Mrs. Hudson is going to murder you one of these days." The doctor exasperates.

_"Good thing you could read her mind and turn her in if she did."_

"Not the point." John glares at the genius as they continue to walk.

"I'm not invading people's minds." John declares firmly, he may have been coerced to agree with the experiment but he wasn't going to break privacy or his rules.

"Only mine." Sherlock says with a smile and before John could protest, the detective bounces away, only emitting a firm _"Stay." _The four words make John still and lean against the nearest brick wall, watching as the detective strides away. The soldier starts to wonder idly where Sherlock has gone, but then realises that would be futile. He scans the area anyway and still gets disappointed slightly when he doesn't see the excited form of the curly haired genius.

A prickling in his head starts._ "Oh great."_ John thinks to himself as London's mumbles start to invade. He can't hear the annoying insignificant sounds of the unreadable thoughts just yet but he knows the feeling. The white noise is close. He prepares himself for the noise, it's easier and less overwhelming if he mentally prepares himself.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. The mumblings of the city are getting more and more incoherent, by the time he pulls his phone out and reads it, the white noise is at the forefront of his brain.

_Brilliant. I'm 350 meters away to the north and now you are exhibiting signs of 'white noise' - SH_

_How did you walk 350 meters in that short of time? Where are you? - JW_

_Irrelevant. I'm right, aren't I? - SH_

_Yes, of course you git - JW_

John grunts frustratingly at the mobile.

_"John."_ He hears Sherlock's voice clear as day in his head. He whips his head around, making sure he isn't close. His phone vibrates again.

_Did you hear me? - SH_

_Yes - How far are you - JW_

_"375 meters."_

_Did you take a taxi for the 25 meters? - JW_

_"Irrelevant."_

John sighs, of course the detective's mind can be heard at long distances, why should that surprise John?

_Couldn't I have stayed at the flat for this? - JW_

John stares at the street, the white noise annoying but tolerable. He takes the chance to try and probe Sherlock's mind. He's never done it when not in direct line of sight. John closes his eyes and focuses on the link. He sees a taxi cab, he can feel excitement, he sees Sherlock entering underneath a sigh that reads 'Hyde Park'.

_"John, stop that. This is my experiment."_ The doctor breaks the link, disbelieving at the range. Hyde Park is over two kilometers away.

_I can experiment too, you are over two kilometers away and I can still hear you. This is bloody amazing - JW_

_"I know, I'm sitting on a bench now, do you see the women in front of me?"_ Sherlock question rings through John's mind. It is all so strange. John opens the link again, finding it easier to connect and latch on this time then before. The doctor sees the woman that the detective is talking about, her hair is short and black, she is in her early twenties and reading a book.

_ "Read her mind."_

John bulks and types furiously on his mobile's keypad._  
><em>

_I told you, I wasn't going to do that. - JW_

_"Come on John, just this once. This is a breakthrough."_

The doctor huffs and seriously contemplates walking back to the flat.

_"Please, John."_ Sherlock's voice is whiny.

_Fine. Fine. You're lucky I like you - JW_

To be honest, John is a little bit curious himself. Could he really read someone's mind without ever seeing them physically?

John tries to reach out for the woman's brain. He's never done anything like this before, he tries to latch onto to something tangible in the woman's mind. He closes his eyes and lets Sherlock's connection fade away slowly as he pictures the woman on the bench. Nothing happens, John can't find anything tangible. He sighs and takes a deep breath, he branches out again and after thirty seconds, there is still nothing.

_Nothing. - JW_

_"Hhmm. Interesting."_ He hears Sherlock's mind whirling,

_"Okay, one more, grab someone around you and listen to them as they walk away, see how long you can hear them."_

_Sherlock! - JW_

_"For the sake of human science. Please John."_ Sherlock uses his whining tone that John is unable to resist and the detective knows it.

_"Have you ever had two connections at once?"_

_No, let me try - JW_

John scans the crowd, the doctor spots a man, early thirties with a child latching onto his hand. They are talking animatedly. John probes the man's thoughts.

_"I have to get home, and cook dinner, do the washing, cook for Charlie, send that email, I cannot forget to send that email, Charlie is very well behaved today, maybe a treat when we get home. God I hope Carol isn't home. She came smelling like him again. I can't believe her. She doesn't think I can smell him on her. It's ruining us, it's ruining Charlie..."_ The man rambles.

_"Can you still hear me?"_ John's eyes widen in surprise. He can hear both Sherlock and the man at the same time. John holds both links as the man turns the corner, he closes his eyes and tries to keep the link. The man's ramblings are fading in and out quickly, and abruptly the man's thoughts are gone. John's mind snaps, like a rubber band extended. John's knees buckle and he slides down the wall. His thoughts race, the man's connection faded after a hundred meters, maybe less.

If that's the case, why is the doctor still able to hear Sherlock? Is it because of familiarity? How special is Sherlock? John starts developing a headache. Soon the white noise starts to fade, Sherlock must be within 350 meters. John leans his head between his knees breathing deep, a headache starting to form.

Why is there a range on the white noise, but now how far he can hear Sherlock? Questions take up John's thoughts, he doesn't even remember if he severed the link with the detective.

_"John!"_ He knows Sherlock is calling for him, but the doctor can't respond, his head hurts and his thoughts consume him.

Sudden hands clasp on the doctor's forearms. John lifts his head up quickly and sees the gray eyes.

"Are you all right?" His face full of caution, the detective is second guessing the experiment, guilty over hurting John. It appears John didn't break the connection after all.

"I'm fine, just...that was bloody brilliant." He exclaims smiling foolishly. Sherlock beams back at him, all guilt gone, John drops the link and begins to stand.

_"Your nose is bleeding slightly."_ John swipes his nose absentmindedly, a line of blood smears the back of his hand. Sherlock fishes in his pocket and hands him a packet of tissues.

"Did you know this was going to happen?" John asks suspiciously,

_"I was just being prepared."_

"I think it was the two connections at once that did me in." John states as they begin walking back to the flat, his nose bleed finally stopping and his headache almost gone. Sherlock nods his head distantly.

_"Ah, analyzing data."_ John thinks, normally he would upset that Sherlock used him for an experiment, but the doctor is finding it hard to resent the younger man. John is analyzing his own data, the fact that he could hear Sherlock over two kilometers away but he could even hear the man with his child past a hundred meters.

"Was the experiment successful?" John asks as they climb the stairs to the flat.

"Insignificant data." Sherlock states out loud, moving towards the kitchen absentmindedly.

"We have to do it again?" John groans and flops down onto the couch.

"No, not necessarily." Sherlock says, the doctor can hear paper shifting as the detective rummages through the kitchen.

"What does it feel like?" John asks after a couple minutes.

_"Interesting, results inconsistent."_

That's the mental response that the doctor received. John sighs and forces himself off the couch, curiosity getting the better of him. He strolls into the kitchen and sees the detective writing down notes ferociously.

"Sherlock, What does it feel like when I'm in your mind?" John asks again, louder this time. Sherlock stops writing and slowly turns his head towards John. The doctor knows that smile, he should have known where the smile would lead. Sherlock gets up, almost menacingly.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asks suddenly alarmed, backing up slowly, he may be a soldier, but he knows when he needs to retreat. Suddenly, the detective leaps onto John, they both careen to the floor, somewhat gently. John grunts in surprise. "What the hell-?" He calls but lips are suddenly on his, John tenses at the touch. The connection explodes in his mind, it's pleasant and warm. He sees flashes of Sherlock's memory. The detective sitting at the park, next to the woman. He feels the poking feeling in his brain. The doctor wonders idly at the poking sensation. It's not uncomfortable just different. Images float in John's mind, images of the two of them, John laughing, John scanning corpses.

The contact is gone and the images cease.

"Bloody hell." John gasps, realising that he isn't breathing. He pants and feels lips against his neck, pecking and moving to different areas of his neck. With each peck a different image flashes briefly. John smiling, Sherlock laughing and John trying to not giggle. John didn't realise he smiled so much in the presence of Sherlock. Confusion seeps in between the kisses and images.

"Wait, wait." John says pushing Sherlock off of him and rolling to the side, out from underneath the lean man. John sits up and looks at Sherlock. Genuine hurt and sadness fill the genius's eyes.

"I'm sorry, John. I-" The detective starts, looking away.

"What the hell, Sherlock? You can't just kiss me for an experiment." John yells without warning, anger seeping through his face, the younger man flinches away. He feels used and angry, angry because Sherlock is toying with his emotions. Sherlock only sees him as a way to get data, something to experiment on and become an expert at.

"I know, I- just- it started out like that and then it wasn't.." Sherlock stammers, his eyes downcast, fidgeting.

"What? Wait, what do you mean?" John asks, catching his breath.

_"I wanted to kiss you, not because I needed data."_

"That's cheating Sherlock." John breathes.

"Fine, I wanted to kiss you," Sherlock yells, his arms flailing, standing up and pacing with the sudden proclamation of emotion. "I've wanted to kiss you for a while and I was just going to touch you and then we feel on the floor and I just couldn't help myself." Sherlock rambles, his movements jerky and nervous.

"_Sherlock, nervous?"_ John thinks to himself.

"So, you wanted to kiss me?" John asks, confusion thick in his voice. The doctor doesn't understand, how could Sherlock keep that big of secret from a telepath.

John is either extremely terrible or Sherlock is just that good.

"Yes." Sherlock says, looking at his hands that fall limply at his sides.

_"I'm sorry,"_ Sherlock turns away from John, who is still stilling on the floor, the doctor's back against his chair. The detective sighs and starts to walk out of the room, to escape. John tries to probe his thoughts but the detective is thinking in Italian, yes Italian.

"Wait, since when do you speak Italian?" John calls bluntly, the detective doesn't stop, "Wait! Never mind. I wanted or still want to kiss you. I...it was nice.." Sherlock stops dead in his thoughts and movements. John doesn't regret it. Let's face it, he's been pining over the genius ever since he heard him deduce. The man is adorable, brilliant and surprising. John is surprised it took him this long to realise it.

_"You were distracted, it didn't seem like you enjoyed."_ John can sense the hurt in the thought.

"No, I...you were touching me." John mutters sheepishly.

"That's the point of kissing, John." Sherlock states, _"Idiot."_

"Obviously, I mean you were touching me and I was immobilised again, I just saw your memories." John says shaking his head.

"I paralyzed you with my kissing." Sherlock asks quizzically, smirking at his feat.

"Shut up, you know what I mean." John huffs. "How?"

"Insufficient data," Sherlock sighs and then a split second smiles manically.

"Sherlock?" John asks, apprehensively.

"I don't know why I can control it, but I would be happy to try more experiments to gather more data." Sherlock states moving closer to John, until his is standing over the doctor.

"Is that nerd talk for something?" John asks chuckling, suddenly shy and nervous of the situation. Sherlock doesn't answer, he kneels in front of John and touches their foreheads together. John closes his eyes as images flash through his brain.

"Are you controlling them?" John asks quietly, watching in awe as Sherlock shows him memories of them together, John can feel the blushing of his cheeks at the images.

"Yes, or at least I'm trying to." Sherlock states, _"Are you seeing the day we are in the hallway after we left Angelo's for the first time, the first time you didn't need your cane and we were giggling."_ The image flashes through his mind, their out of breath laughs echoing throughout the entrance way.

John tilts his head up suddenly and envelops Sherlock in a kiss. Its deep and tender. _"I'll take that as a yes." _John grips Sherlock's shirt, twisting the material in pleasure. Suddenly, all thoughts stop and John feels their bodies together and they kiss, slow and passionate, John nibbling on Sherlock's lower lip.

"Are you doing that too?" John asks, breaking apart, both of them gasping for breath. Sherlock licks and nibbles along John's neck as he mutters affirmative.

"How?" Sherlock asks as his hands run smooth down John shirt, unbuttoning as he goes, complete mental silence enveloping them.

"Do you really want to worry about that right now?" Sherlock asks, pulling John into another long kiss.

"No." John pants out. Sherlock grabs John by the shirt and pulls him down to the floor again. John squirms to get comfortable.

"Do you want this?" Sherlock asks, his tone nervous, his hand moving slowly down the doctor's body, caressing John's taunt abdomen and playing lightly at the doctor's waistband.

"Oh god yes." John replies, grabbing Sherlock and flipping him over onto his back while the doctor attacks the detective's mouth fiercely. All thoughts silent and the only things he feels are Sherlock and the link, astonishingly, the link only heightens his touches and needs of the younger man.

Sherlock moans under the ministrations of John's tongue.

_"John. Bedroom."_ John grabs Sherlock's shirt and pulls them both towards the bedroom, careful not to break the contact.

* * *

><p>I hope that's okay.<p>

Peace&Love


	7. Lilacs and Honey

Oh, you guys are lovely, really. I love all of you.

Best friends for life.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>Morning light peaks through the curtains in the doctor's bedroom. John and Sherlock lay together in bed. The doctor lays on his stomach, one of his arms laying at his side and the other arm underneath his head acting as a pillow. The detective is curved up beside him, the long legs curled gently, pressing against John's thighs. Sherlock's arm is wrapped tightly across the doctor's back, the long fingers flat against John's ribs.<p>

John slowly wakes up to flashes of color streaking across his mind, much to his surprise. Partially because he didn't think Sherlock actually has dreams and another part of him thought Sherlock wouldn't be there in the morning, let alone sleep. He keeps his eyes closed and basks in the warmth and comforting thoughts of the detective next to him.

John tries to focus on the images. At first, they seem to have no purpose, bright flashes of purple and blues, with streaks of gray, white, and silver.

The doctor has never witnessed this type of dreaming before, sure he has probed minds that were asleep, how could he not? But, the dreams were nothing like this. Dreams have always been like watching a movie, a very strange and fuzzy movie.

The detective's dreams hold images, but they are overshadowed by the hues. John tries to focus and dig out a memory, he focuses on the images around the colors. The doctor remains as relaxed as possible under the arm of Sherlock as he explores the younger man's mind.

Underneath the purple, John sees a shirt, Sherlock's shirt. John would recognise that shirt anywhere, it's tight fitting and makes John drool, yes drool.

Underneath the blue is a faint picture of John in his favorite blue jumper, laughing while lounging on the couch, blood trickles from his nose as John brings a tissue up to staunch the flow. John remembers that night fondly, they chased a criminal around London, naturally. The suspect knocked John down and then pulled a gun on him.

Out of nowhere, Sherlock arrived and took the guy out, not just a punch and handcuffs, no Sherlock tackled the man to the ground and then with one punched knocked the man unconscious. John remembers watching in amazement. It wasn't until they got back to the flat that John commented on how BAMF Sherlock had been, causing them both to laugh.

John smiles to himself at the memory and proceeds to find the image beneath the gray, white and silver. The colors seem to be linked together but John can't quite get underneath the radiating shades. The colors start to fade and for a second John freaks out, tensing against the change. It isn't until he realises that Sherlock is leaving his dream part of sleep, towards waking up, that John relaxes.

As Sherlock slowly wakes up, the images fall silent, and John's mind wanders. The doctor calms himself, breathing slowly and matching the slightly snoring detective. John revels in the fondness of the heat created by the proximity and his tactile connection with the genius.

Why is Sherlock so different? John asks himself this question almost constantly, even last night, when Sherlock touched him. His connection would spark and tingle with Sherlock's touches but no memories came. His mind was completely silent. Why? Is Sherlock really different? Or is John weaker? Is being weaker a good or bad thing? Is this him turning normal?

John mentally shakes his head, he was able to read that man with the child, he could read that man's thoughts easily and it wasn't any different then usual. So Sherlock is just special? Why? How?

Why is he so accepting? John becomes slightly suspicious suddenly. He adapted to John's gift quickly without so much as a blink of hesitation. Does he know more information about this than John does?

John shakes his head, mentally of course, again. He trusts the younger man, well of course he does based on last night.

_"Sherlock has nothing to do with this."_ He reassures himself, John thinks back to when he was telling the genius about his gift, Sherlock was curious and absorbing, he wouldn't act like that if he wasn't truly interested.

In spite of all of that, the fact that John can read his mind and has yet to find anything but true curiosity and wonderment in the detective, is reassuring enough.

John dismisses the thought that Sherlock is a spy, thinking himself very silly.

_"John."_ Sherlock calls out mentally, his tone sleepy. John opens his eyes slowly and sees the genius's eyes still closed and his breathing deep. The younger man is still sleeping.

John heart can't help but swell in adoration and his cheeks blush a little bit. He never once thought the fact that Sherlock called him mentally or was always thinking about him was because Sherlock was attracted...interested...loved him? No not love. Sherlock is a sociopath, he doesn't love. John tries to reason with himself. But there is something there, the evidence and the sheer amount of time that Sherlock spends mentally and obliviously calling for the doctor.

John stares at the pale white and beautiful skin of the man next to him. What does the doctor feel? Attraction?

_"Come on, Watson. You know."_ He screams at himself, yes, yes he does. He can't deny how madly in love he is with his flatmate, boyfriend, lover? Confusion and uncertainty surround John.

John sighs, this time out loud before he thinks about it. He shifts from underneath the detective, making a move to leave the room.

"Shh. I'm sleeping, stop thinking." Sherlock mutters, griping John closer, preventing the doctor from leaving.

"Sorry." John says sadly, he just not on par with his emotions right now.

The detective's eyes snap open and study the doctor's face. He glances over the older man's face for a few seconds. John holds his gaze steady, the soldier is not a coward.

_"What's wrong?"_

John doesn't answer. He just holds onto the gray eyes, anticipating the inevitable fight that is about to happen.

"I care about you John, stop with the angst." Sherlock states abruptly, his lips curling slightly.

"What do you mean stop? I'm confused I don't know what happened? What does this mean?" John yells , his thoughts scream at him whilst his emotions have free reign.

_"Great, good job Watson."_ John thinks.

"I'm sorry, that was unfair." John says looking at the pensive look the detective is carrying.

"You didn't like it?" Sherlock questions, looking away from John.

"No, that's not what I meant, that was...bloody great." John says, shifting himself, so he is on his side. Sherlock's arm doesn't move and once John gets situated, he pulls the doctor closer to him. Who would have figured the detective to be a closet cuddler?

"I ask again, What's wrong?" Sherlock says, his face completely serious.

"I just, what now, I care about you, a lot, Sherlock. I don't know if I can go back to being just friends after this." John confesses in despair, thinking how long it will take for Sherlock to get him out of the flat.

"Shut up, you aren't leaving." Sherlock commands. "John, I'm not good at these emotions, but I, last night..I...I've never felt affection for someone like I do for you..." Sherlock says, nuzzling his neck into John's chest.

"I'm just too pedestrian for you." John states calmly, but truthfully.

Sherlock snorts, an angry snort. "John you are far from pedestrian and I'm not even talking about the fact that you can read minds." Sherlock states, chuckling at the silliness the older man.

"I just don't understand." John exasperates vulnerably. Suddenly images burst through the connection, Sherlock's hand and face emit pleasant heat as the pictures play rapidly in his mind. Images of the two of them together, laughing and being near each other, standing next to each other, images of them gravitating towards each other, getting into fisticuffs with assailants.

"I show you what I see in you all the time, I pick the images that are my favorite and make me happy." Sherlock sends warmth and adoration, no, the feeling isn't adoration fully, it's more deep, it feels like...love.

"You love me?" John asks, incredulous, without thinking. Sherlock tenses underneath him.

"I don't know feelings," Sherlock starts, "But then you came into my life and all of a sudden I hurt, I was emotional and I felt things that I didn't know existed." Sherlock adds.

_"I show the symptoms of love."_

"You googled it didn't you?" John snickers, and a little part of him wonders how he didn't see the signs.

_"They were very resourceful." _

John chuckles and gripes the detective closer.

"So where does that leave us?" John asks.

"Boyfriends, lovers." Sherlock suggests.

"Boyfriends." John states, his mind immediately relaxing.

"I love you too." John remarks, letting the detective nuzzle into his neck, the doctor sighing with happiness.

* * *

><p>Life still hasn't changed, they are now together, much to the relief of Scotland Yard and Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade even admitted, albeit rather shyly, that he was glad the sexual tension was finally taken care of. It was, apparently, "terribly suffocating."<p>

_"So everyone knew about this before me."_ John thinks to himself in one of the taxi rides across London. John suddenly rethinks reading people's minds for personal gain.

John sits in a cafe just down the road of the surgery before he heads home, he mulls over his new relationship with Sherlock. He hasn't felt this happy in a long time. He really owes the detective a lot. The only new thing is that the detective has become diligent in his experiments. Honestly, it's hard to refuse the genius when he is pushing images of them together...in bed.. into John's head whenever he wants.

For the most part, Sherlock has worked at mastering his breaking of John's mental barriers, day by day, Sherlock is able to push more and more thoughts into the doctor's head. Moreover, to John's surprise, the detective is also able to control his thoughts when they touch and he is able to push more thoughts into John without the soldier initiating a mental connection. John doesn't know what to think, in fact, several times he wanders if Sherlock has some sort of ability himself. The detective denies this of course, and why wouldn't he, John doesn't have any experience, maybe people could control what John sees if they knew. However, Sherlock is very adamant about not involving others. John finds this relieving, and a little possessive of the younger man, but John just finds his possession adorable and tolerable.

_"John!"_

_"John!"_

_"John!" _John stumbles at the rapid chanting thoughts echoing in his head. He whips out his phone.

_Oh my god, what? How are you doing that? How can I hear you this far away? - JW_

The doctor is surprised and slightly stunned. He is more than a twenty minute tube ride from the flat and he hasn't even reached the station yet.

_"You can hear me. Excellent." _Pure happiness radiates from the thought causing John to smile._  
><em>

John opens up and breaks into Sherlock's link so they can communicate easier. He sees Sherlock staring at his chair in the flat. He senses the boredom and excitement. John shakes his head in adoration. He latches onto the bond.

The doctor has become very comfortable with Sherlock's link and can even pick it out in a crowd, thanks to a new development. Due to one of the detective's experiment, which Sherlock is very insistent and determined when it comes to them and for the most part, the doctor isn't annoyed by them. When Sherlock experiences, John gets to test theories as well. It's a whole new door in learning and John finds himself with new experiences and furthering his limitations. John is exploring his gift in ways he never thought possible.

The new occurrence happened by accident. Sherlock encourages John to probe his mind whenever he wants so the detective can get better at detecting when John opens the mental connection. (John nods but doesn't abide, his rules are firm. He only obeys when Sherlock pleads incessantly or when the genius deduces) However, the link has become familiar and proficient.

It turns out, the more familiar and comfortable John is with a link, the bond takes on a tangible capability. John hadn't noticed before and, until the recent development, he probably would have never known that his mental links emit a taste, per se, the more he attaches with a person the more concrete and recognisable the link becomes. With the accustomed bond, comes a certain taste, no John isn't putting a mental connection in his mouth, but his mind can taste things when it comes to a perceptible link, it allows John to pick up the link a lot easier in a crowd and over distances. Sherlock's link smells of lilacs and honey, John thinks it's weird. Sherlock finds it as another experiment and extremely fascinating of course. He eats different things and then makes John probe his mind and 'taste' the connection.

_So far, _

_Strawberries (Still lilac and honey)_

_Carrots (Nothing, although, Sherlock turned a bit orange that day, he was really invested in the experiment)_

_Spaghetti (Lilac and honey) _

_Any takeaway in the area (Still nothing)_

If anything, John admires the detective for his perseverance and diligence. The test is still ongoing, and John doesn't complain. The doctor revels in the fact that the detective is at least eating, and on his own accord. That's improvement.

_Is this another one of your experiments? - JW_

_"Yes. I've been calling your name for the past four hours." _The familiar taste of lilac and honey invade John's mind. He smiles to himself as he walks towards the tube station.

_I've been at work. How is calling me for the past four hours not considered boring? - JW_

_How are you doing this? Does it hurt? - JW  
><em>

_"You aren't boring. I don't know how, I have just been repeating your name in my mind. And no it doesn't hurt." _He can sense Sherlock thinking pensively over the link._  
><em>

_For the past four hours? - JW_

_"Yes."_

_You are crazy.- JW  
><em>

_"How far away are you?" _

_I just left the cafe down the street from the surgery towards the tube.- JW_

_"Excellent. We should see if we can make the distance farther."_

_No. I don't need you in my head when I'm across London - JW_

_"We need milk."_

_My point exactly - JW  
><em>

_"I'm eating cake?" __  
><em>

_Is that supposed to distract me...Wait, you made a cake? o_0 - JW_.

John panics before typing a rapid response.

IS THE FLAT OKAY? - JW

The doctor sputters at the thought. He scans the flat through Sherlock's eyes, but all he sees is the plate of white cake.

John can see the mess of flour and icing he would have to clean when he got home. The doctor sighs.

_"Yes, yes, calm down. Of course not, Mrs. Hudson made it. And don't use smilies they lower my IQ."_

_Naturally - JW_

John laughs and pockets his phone._  
><em>

_"DO I TASTE LIKE CAKE!"_ Sherlock's thoughts scream into John's mind after a minute, he resists the urge to grunt in the sudden booming in his head.

_Calm down, that hurts. no, nothing. - JW_

_Wait, what type of cake? - JW_

_"You can taste something different?"_ John can sense the excitement. _"Its lemon cake with vanilla frosting."_

_Oh that sounds good. - JW_

_"John!" _Sherlock is whining._ "Do I taste like cake?"_

_Still lilacs and honey, love. ;) - JW_

_I hate you - SH_

John smiles putting his phone away again, entering the tube station and enjoying the quiet ride home.

* * *

><p>Fluff.<p> 


	8. Masterminds and Assassination Attempts

Look at what happens when I randomly sit down and don't leave this story alone for two hours. 4,000+ words happen.

Btw.

I decided that I'm going to stay away from graphic smut, So all sex scenes will just be implied, unless a lot of people want them.

I really appreciate all of the reviews. This story is kind of on going, I don't have definite end goal in mind.

If you guys want to see an event played out or anything let me know.

Also, would you guys like to see some genuine h/c. If so, which one Sherlock or John?

Peace&Love Lovelies.

Attention Fluff ahead.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, you are being overly dramatic. More so than normal." John states exasperated.<p>

"I am not." John hears the muffled noise of the detective through the bathroom door. John sighs. _"Idiot."_

"Hey! Come out already." John asks, leaning against the door frame, staring at the wooden door standing in the way of the doctor and his genius boyfriend who is holed up in the bathroom refusing to come out.

Sherlock doesn't answer and John is growing impatient. He slowly opens the link between them, lilacs and honey filling his nostrils pleasantly, John closes his eyes and tries to see through Sherlock's mind, hoping that Sherlock will think of the image John wants to see. An image of the bathroom through Sherlock's eyes comes into view.

"Stop that, it's cheating." Sherlock yells. John sees darkness suddenly, he realises that Sherlock has shut his eyes to prevent John from looking.

"Well, excuse me for wanting to see what my very hot boyfriend looks like when he is in his very hot suit." John huffs backing out of the connection and crossing his arms, leaning his full weight on the door separating the two of them. "Forgive me for being impatient." John scoffs.

"I don't see why we have to go Mycroft's party away." Sherlock whines. _"Dull, idiots."_

"Because your brother invited us, and there will be free food." John replies honestly, brushing his hands over his own suit.

"And because you said we could experiment." Sherlock insists.

"I said I might let you experiment if you were good." John clarifies picking a piece of lint off his shoulder. "Besides-" John starts but he is suddenly falling backwards, his arms flailing. Warm arms wrap tightly around the doctor before he can fall to the floor. He relaxes instantly into the detective's embrace, the connection instantaneous as Sherlock hands rest over John's exposed wrists. John twists his head and beams up into the gray eyes, letting the silence and the connection warm him. "Hi." John exhales lazily, getting lost in the genius's gorgeous eyes and silence.

_"Hey yourself." _Sherlock stand like that for a few minutes, John leaning heavily into Sherlock's chest, held tightly while Sherlock creates lazy circles absentmindedly across the the back of John's exposed hand, not letting any images through just warmth and love.

"A little warning next time?" says finally, standing himself up right, his tone mocking.

_"I'm not the idiot who was leaning against the door."_ Sherlock says stepping out of the bathroom. John is pretty sure his mouth is on the floor, and drooling like a cartoon character. Sherlock strolls across the room picking up his phone and watch. John looks at the man in front of him, probably one of the most beautiful people he's ever seen. The suit is tailored perfectly, tightly fitted to accent the detective's features. It is a light gray shade that works well with the detective's eyes. John has never seen someone look so good in a suit before. As Sherlock walks around the room getting ready, picking up this and that. John just stares, albeit a little creepily. John suddenly feels very self-conscious in his own navy blue suit.

_"Don't be silly John. That suit fits you very nicely."_ John cast his eyes downward at the compliment. His bashfulness makes his ears twinge with a pink hue.

_"Now stop standing there with your mouth open."_ John closes his mouth with an audible click, He hears a sigh from across the room and notices Sherlock moving closer to him.

"_All I meant was, I have several other ideas of what your mouth could be doing rather than wide open, it was adorable but distracting."_ The baritone states, his breath right at John's ear, the military man straightens up instinctively and waste no time. He grabs Sherlock's suit carefully, trying not to wrinkle the perfect clothing and mashes their lips together. The kiss is sweet and clean, the connection is silent, no images float between them but John can feel the spark of the link enhancing the kiss. John moves his tongue slowly across Sherlock's lower lip and Sherlock groans in pleasure. Sherlock pushes John against the wall and pins the doctor with his body, cupping John's face and bombarding him with images. A laughing Sherlock insulting Anderson, a grinning detective poking at something in a petri dish. John welcomes the pictures and tries to stay focused on the kiss, but he knows that Sherlock is fighting dirty.

Sherlock breaks the kiss and they both pant heavily.

"That's really not fair." John states, gasping for breath.

"I have no idea what you are talking about." The younger man states calmly.

John huffs. "Of course you don't." He mumbles under his breath.

"If you let me test some of my theories I could probably distract you less." Sherlock says out loud just to prove his point.

"You already know how to control it," John says incredulously, Sherlock backs away about to leave the bedroom. John, horrified, grabs his clothed elbow. "Fine. Fine. But if I'm uncomfortable at all you have to let me stop okay." Sherlock nods enthusiastically, smiling down at him and placing a chaste kiss to his lips, before breaking off and grabbing John's hand. John squeezes the detective's hand lightly once. No thoughts enter John's mind with the link and John let's the genius led him out of the bedroom. John looks back longingly once and Sherlock laughs at him.

_"There will plenty of time for that later,"_ John eyes beam and he willingly follows Sherlock out of the bedroom.

_"Come on, you silly doctor, the car is here."_

* * *

><p><em>"God, Sherlock was right." <em>John thinks to himself as he stands in a corner observing the party._ "All these people are so dull." _

At least, Sherlock is in the room, because with this many people, the white noise would have killed the doctor._  
><em>

Nothing interesting about them, besides their fancy clothing and obvious affairs. At least the food is good and the champagne is free._ "Liquor, a way to every Watson's heart." _The sarcastic thought comes out of nowhere, John doesn't normally think about his family and John scolds himself bitterly._ "Watson, don't ruin this party with your own bitter family affairs."_

_"Dull. Affair."_

_"Dull. Launderer"_

_"Dull. Nothing of remote interest." _

The repeat phrases coming from Sherlock as he circles the room are, strangely comforting. He is now twirling around the room deduce various things about the party goers, while John resists the temptation to start the mental connection, but with each empty champagne glass, John is finding his self control slipping.

_"John. I'm bored."_ John looks around for Sherlock but can't see him anywhere. He whips out his phone and sends of a text with a huff.

_You better not be hiding, I'm too old for playing hide and seek with you. - JW_

_"Can we experiment now, I'm bored and there isn't even a murderer amidst us." _Sherlock whines in John's head, ignoring his previous statement like usual._  
><em>

_I wouldn't say that - JW_

_"What? Who?, no no let me guess." _John spots Sherlock suddenly, just on the outskirts of the dance floor, his expression manic and gleeful.

_"That should keep him busy for awhile." _Apparently, champagne makes John manipulative, he muses the thought over while he grabs another glass of the bubbly drink.

Eventually, John stops drinking champagne, but not before he has a pleasant buzz, if not in a drunken state. He lost sight of Sherlock an hour go, probably still hunting a murderer that John made up.

_"John. You lied to me." _The sudden intrusion pounds against John's head._ "Ah. this is why we don't drink, Watson. Everything hurts more." _John really hates when he talks to himself sometimes, he just has to have a smarmy conscience. It's true, though, whenever John drinks his gift is still as sharp as ever but he has problems tolerating the pain, sometimes he can manage it, other times it's worse than ever. John stands straight up and focuses on making himself more accommodating to Sherlock's thoughts. If Sherlock decides to push his thoughts, John needs to be ready.

_"That wasn't fair." _Nope, definitely not ready, John clutches his head and backs into the nearest wall. The doctor is, thankfully, far enough away from people that no one notices the bizarre man clutching his head. He hopes to god that nobody touches him.

_"John." _John grunts._ "Yep, just keeping the thoughts coming Sherlock." _John thinks bitterly. The doctor shifts his body and stumbles away from the party to a nearby door, opening it without thinking and practically falling into the adjacent room. He just needs to sit down.

_"Am I drunker than I thought?" _John wonders to himself as he staggers to a chair, his brain slow and hazy. He starts to scan the room but gets as far as the wall to ceiling windows on either side of a fireplace and gives up, he honestly doesn't care what Mycroft's rooms look like. Rich, smug bastard. And let's introduce Bitter John. He sits in the moonlit room for a little bit, letting his perfect drunken haze entertain him.

Suddenly, John's phone rings. He knows right away it isn't Sherlock, there is hardly ever use for a phone call between from Sherlock anymore.

Blocked number.

Normally, John doesn't answer blocked numbers, but let's take in the factors, the party is boring, Sherlock isn't around and the doctor is drunk.

John answers the call with disinterest, a slight throb in his head.

"Hello." John slurs.

"Hello, Johnny." A strange voice answers. John disinterest gets pushed aside at the use of his name.

"Who is this? How do you know my name?" John spits unoriginally at the stranger on the phone, slouching into the chair impatiently. A sharp painful throbs in his head but then it dies.

"Now now, Johnny no need to be so touchy. Pets aren't supposed to bark at strangers." John sits there confused, Who is this guy? He tries to latch onto the link over the phone. Sherlock and he have been practicing it, with a little bit of success, but with John drunk and the pain of any mental connections looming over him, John doesn't know if his subconsciously not trying or if he really can't get into the guy's mind.

"I'm drunk, I really don't have time for this buddy." John states finally, his limbs getting heavier with the sudden realisation, he wonders idly where Sherlock is and how come he hasn't thought about anything recently, maybe the detective will take him home.

"Drunk, no not drunk Johnny. Drugged maybe." The sing song voice is shrill in John's ears, causing him to pull the phone away in disgust. He recognises an accent. He tries to place it, his head is fuzzy.

"Why? How?" He tries to straighten himself quickly and look for danger, his body and his eyes are slow to respond, a dangerous sign.

"Oh don't worry, nobody will get hurt, people will just feel drunk. It's my little gift to Sherlock Holmes." Irish, definitely Irish. John feels stupidly victorious.

"Why are you talking to me then?" John asks, genuine curiosity breaking through his drug induced haze, he slouches on the chair again, fatigue clouding over all of his instincts.

"Why not, you are his pet aren't you? Who better to get information out of?" A door creaks open but John doesn't notice it. His eyes are unfocused and he is lazily looking at the fabric on the chair. His head is starting to throb.

"A truth drug. Seriously?" John scoffs and then laughs hysterically. He suddenly wonders if he should get up and find Sherlock, after all he is drugged. A noise behind jolts John out of his trance, he flinches but does nothing. His limbs aren't cooperating at all, he couldn't get away if he wanted to. An irrational part of him, whether do to the drug or some other force, wishes for a painless death.

The sudden lean figure of Sherlock Holmes kneeling in front of him calms the doctor, completely relaxing John, who didn't even know he was tense. The detective's face is his full of worry and concern.

"John." Sherlock asks out loud looking quizzically at the doctor.

"Hang on, stranger." John giggles into the phone, manners first. He wonders if something is wrong.

"What's going on, John?" Sherlock asks placing a hand onto John's knee. John just stares at him, glancing between the hand on his knee and Sherlock's face.

"Is that Sherlock, Johnny Boy?" The Irish man ask him. For a split second, something tells him to just hang up, throw the phone across the room and get Sherlock out of the house. However, his limbs and his mind don't really feel the danger his logic does. So John nods stupidly.

"Well then, put him on." Red flags signal in John's brain but he passes the phone over to Sherlock who looks at him worriedly. The doctor tries to smile reassuringly but failing and it comes off as a sloppy, lopsided grin. If the detective wasn't so confused and worried by the situation he would have laughed at his lover's expression.

Sherlock takes the phone from John gently.

"Who is this?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh the Great Sherlock Holmes." The voice booms.

"DUBLIN!" John screams suddenly, the man's accent is from Dublin. A throb splits his head again and John cups his head with his head in pain.

"What do you want?" Sherlock ask the man on the phone, moving towards the windows away from a mumbling John.

John slides forward in the chair, putting his elbows on his knees, hands cupped around his head. His head hurt and it's fuzzy. Who is the man on the phone? What does he want? Why attack at Mycroft's place? John is royally confused, the throb starts to subside and a little room for thinking opens up. He doesn't even bother opening up a link with Sherlock, he can't handle the headache. John doesn't know what drug this is, he doesn't know how painful the side affects of a connections could be.

John tries to think around the pain, a Dublin man drugged an entire party just to talk to John or Sherlock himself. John looks at Sherlock at the window, thirty seconds have passed since John had surrendered the mobile and the detective does not look happy. His face is contorted and his mouth is in a thin line. He stands next to the window, absentmindedly looking out it.

John's mind is poking at him, telling him something is wrong. How did the man know John was by himself? What if Sherlock was around? Why hijack John's phone?

_"He is watching,"_ John thinks suddenly, somewhat surprised at his deduction through the haze. John nodded, he had nodded in response and the man responded to his nod. He is watching. John's eyes find Sherlock's form, standing in front of the gigantic window.

John is up in a flash and crosses the room to Sherlock, with surprising agility due to his state. The doctor pushes the mobile out of Sherlock's grip and pulls the detective by the back of the coat backwards onto John as the ex-soldier flies towards the fireplace. Milliseconds later, a crash is heard and the window shatters into a million pieces.

John crashes onto the hearth, bad shoulder first. Sherlock collapses on top of him. He grunts in pain. The doctor scrambles to but his back against the cover crate of the fireplace that is thankfully not on. He drags Sherlock with him, refusing to be in any line of the window, in case the shooter gets a different advantage.

"John what the hell?" Sherlock says exasperated.

"He can see us. Dublin man." John giggles hysterically at his nickname, even though he knows it's not funny. Adrenaline gone, John's head throbs painfully and John brings his knees up and puts his head between his legs rocking back and forth in the pain. This one is stronger than the others, stronger and still scary. This kind of throbbing has never happened before. In John's drugged, hazy state he can't comprehend what is wrong.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock says and the throbbing goes away slowly.

John extends his legs with a shaky sigh waves his hand dismissively. "You should call your brother and ask him to rescue us from the room. I don't know if the shooter is still out there." John says while he is sober from the pain in his head. Sherlock pulls out his phone and sends of a text.

"John, What's wrong?" Sherlock asks again. John starts to answer but the haze is back and so is the throb. He can feel the bile in the back of his throat start to rise. The on and off pain is going to kill him.

There is movement next to the doctor and suddenly, the lanky form of his boyfriend is straddling him.

John smiles up at the detective despite his pain. Sherlock grabs John's face and through his haze the doctor doesn't see anything wrong. The throb feels like needles on his brain so the doctor closes his eyes in pain, his face contorting. The throb goes away quickly. John opens his eyes instantly looks at Sherlock in confusion. John's face relaxes and so does his body. He can't help but wonder where the onslaught of pain is coming from. Maybe a side affect of the drug. So he expect nosebleeds soon? _Oh well._ John giggles out loud again.

"John can you hear me?" Sherlock asks with concern.

"Yes of course, silly. You are talking." John says, kind of offended by the accusation that his hearing has suffered from the drug.

"No, John. Can you hear my thoughts?" Sherlock says, searching the doctor's eyes for treasure, or what John can assume is treasure.

"You won't find any treasure there. You have to look for the X." John blurts out before he thinks about it. The doctor doesn't know why he said that, it doesn't make sense. He tries to shake his head to clear it but long fingers are holding him in place.

"John. Listen to me. Can you hear my thoughts." John focuses, what is Sherlock asking, something about thoughts. He focuses. Sherlock is touching him. _"Sherlock is touching me."_ John thinks to himself. He panics. "Sherlock is touching me. Sherlock is touching me. Sherlock is touching me."

"You are touching me!" John states out loud, "I don't feel anything. I can't taste you." John cries, his takes a deep breath, or tries to but it come out as shallow sob. "I can't hear you. I can't hear anything!" John calls, he is panicking. He tries to probe into Sherlock's mind but only comes away with coldness and a slight headache.

"What's going on?" John looks into Sherlock's eyes pleading.

"John. Calm Down." Sherlock commands, letting go of John's face, dismounting the doctor and scooping up the older man in his arms, cradling him closer. Some axiety leaves him once his is in Sherlock's arms and his breathing starts to soothe out.

"John. I've been screaming my thoughts at you ever since I got into the room." Sherlock states.

"That's why it hurts." John says. "That what the throbbing is, I have this random throbbing that is hurting my head, and then they go away quickly." John explains.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it was hurting you." Sherlock admits, a guilty look on his face.

"It's fine, I didn't know either, I didn't know I couldn't read thoughts anymore" John states sadly, his eyelids heavy.

"John, what happened?" Sherlock asks quietly. John tries to recall the nights events, exhaustion and haziness clouded his memories.

"The Champagne was drugged!" John spits out. "You didn't have any did you, it messes you up." John cries, suddenly looking over Sherlock's face looking for signs of dilated pupils or other side affects of drug use.

"Yes I know about the Champagne and I didn't have any." Sherlock states calmly. John sighs and stops inspecting the detective for drugs.

"Sherlock what's happening?" John ask timidly.

"I don't know." Sherlock replies honestly.

"Why can't I hear anybody?" John asks, his voice devastated. "What if I can never do it again?" John lets tears spill down his face. "Then you leave me. You'll get bored because you won't have any experiments about me anymore. and I'll be all alone again." John sobs into Sherlock's suit, a little guiltily. And introducing, No filter Watson. John instantly feels vulnerable, he would have never confessed any of the last statement out loud. He suddenly feels very anxious and that just adds to his sobs.

"Shh. John..that is never going to happen. Your gift is not the reason I'm with you. I could care less if you couldn't hear people's thoughts anymore. That's not the person I feel in love with." Sherlock says, stroking a hand confidently through John's hair.

"Really?" John asks, his voice so small and broken.

"Of course. I love you John Watson." Sherlock says grabbing John's chin and closing the distance for chaste kiss.

John sighs and grips Sherlock tighter.

"Who was that man?" John asks finally.

"Moriarty." Sherlock snarls out.

"Who is that?"

"A fan."

"That's twisted." John states calmly. The pair sit in silence for a few minutes just holding each other.

"HE TRIED TO KILL YOU!" John screams after five minutes, just remembering the shattering glass and the reason they haven't left the floor. "Are you okay, you aren't hit are you?" John demands, running a hand over the detective's body.

"John. I'm fine. Thanks to you, we were already half way to the ground by the time the window shattered." Sherlock says, pulling John close placing a kiss on the doctor's temple.

"Anytime." John replies smiling with a lopsided grin again. "What now?"

"We wait for Mycroft and then get you to a hospital. We have to see what the drug is and how it's affecting your brain."

John nods and tries not to panic.

What happens if his gift is permanently gone?

Could he really go back to be normal?


	9. MRI's

Sorry for the slow updating, I had a three year old's birthday to plan and execute. This week should have a steady stream of updates for both of my stories.

It's so weird, because in my other story, Mycroft is not this cold, however, I feel like this Mycroft is a little more cannon or maybe Greg is the reason he softens up.

I just want everyone to know that John and Sherlock had been together for at least six months before Mycrofts party, and in the sixth months are experiments and cases.

Reviews are welcome

OMG I'm so tired, I wanted to get this up for you, the mistakes are probably horrendous I know, I'll go back and fix it later but for now, onwards.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p><em>Shot at, help would be nice - SH<em>

Mycroft enters the library in a panic, he had guards immediately search the grounds as Mycroft went to go and find his brother. As soon as he sees the genius, he quickly reigns in his emotions.

The politician expects blood and a frantic doctor fussing over the detective, like usual.

Instead he sees a passed out John Watson laying in Sherlock's arms, next to pieces of glass and a breeze that makes the older man shiver.

"Someone tried to kill me." Sherlock states calmly, stroking the doctor's hair. Mycroft sends out a text wishing for an update of the sweep of the estate, his face disinterested, but Sherlock sees right through it, he can see the faintest traces of worry.

"Enemies? You?" Mycroft states still hovering in the doorway.

"Someone named Moriarty." Sherlock states, not taking his eyes of John.

The elder Holmes's mobile beeps.

_The ground is clear, shooter gone. -Anthea_

Mycroft moves into the room farther after reading the text and sits down on the chair opposite, being careful to sidestep glass.

"Who is that, baby brother?" Mycroft asks nonchalantly, crossing his legs trying to hold back his anger and frustration at the attempted assassin.

"A fan." Sherlock snarls.

"Some fan." Mycroft muses.

"I would like to take John to a hospital." Sherlock commands, ignoring the very sarcastic, very dull Mycroft.

"What's wrong with him?" Mycroft asks curiously.

"The same thing that is wrong with all of your guests who drank the champagne. It was drugged, Mycroft." Mycroft sighs, that explains the rowdiness of the crowd. He raises his eyebrows at the detective.

"They are fine, John just hit his head when he pulled me away from the window." Sherlock states, running a hand over the doctor's face and intertwining their fingers, sending warm and comforting thoughts to John, hoping that in his unconscious he can see the detective. That is, if he still can hear. Sherlock frowns for a half a second at the thought of John losing his telepathy.

Mycroft narrows his eyes, he always knows when his little brother is lying, not to mention the fact that Mycroft sees the frown briefly. Something is off and now Mycroft is intrigued to the doctor and the detective. Plus, there is no blood anywhere and head wounds bleed. So why lie about what happen? Especially when the evidence is lacking? Even if John did hit his head, the fact that there is no blood just reinforces the idea that Sherlock is lying, both brother know fully well that the doctor and the detective avoid A&E religiously. No way would the younger Holmes willing go into the hospital. So Mycroft makes no effort to move, he just stares at Sherlock, telling him with his eyes how big that he is faking.

"Fine. Mycroft." Sherlock scoffs, "He's prone to extensive migraines and nosebleeds and I don't know what the drug was. I'm uneasy with his unconsciousness and I would like to double check everything." Sherlock didn't necessarily lie that time and he believes Mycroft accepts his answer with a nod.

"I trust you will be running tests on the drug?" Mycroft asks, texting for a car on his mobile.

"Of course," Sherlock says, "Once I know if John will or will not have nosebleeds." Sherlock adds.

However, Mycroft sees through his fibs, the older brother could see that there is a half truth but the politician is definitely missing an important piece. Nevertheless, Mycroft, despite the lies, pulls his face into a neutral acceptance enough to fool Sherlock into thinking Mycroft believed him, the detective sighs visibly out of relief for a split second before focusing on tracing patterns into John's hand.

Mycroft can't remember seeing Sherlock so tactile before. It seems John has done a lot more to Sherlock than Mycroft had originally realized.

He will have to remind Anthea and schedule a kidnapping for the doctor once he is well.

* * *

><p>The trip to the hospital is uneventful. John is still out of it as they wheel him in for an MRI at the insistence of Sherlock, after informing the doctor's not to touch him.<p>

The doctor's make no fuss and get straight to work, they don't even question Sherlock insistence for an MRI.

Sherlock sits and waits for news, impatiently and with boredom, but there a seldom few things Sherlock wouldn't do for John.

* * *

><p>John slowly works his way into consciousness. His thoughts jumbled and not quite there, the doctor's first coherent thought is if he still possess his gift. John doesn't feel any different. He thinks about finding someone to make a connection with but honestly, he's scared. The doctor is afraid that he has lost his gift, he doesn't want to deal with reality yet if that's the case.<p>

_"I like the silence but who would I be without my ability?"_ John thinks to himself sleepily, genuinely worried. After a while, he tries to move, but his tiredness prevents him from doing anything. The doctor muses about the drugs that are so obviously in his system. He wonders if they are lasting side affects from Sherlock's crazed fan or if he is on something the doctors given him. John can't seem to care, he is fine just laying here and resting, resisting the urge to probe a wandering nurse who's shoes squeak loudly down the hallway. Instead, he just lays there, drifting between wakefulness and sleep, basking in the silence and hoping that maybe he could go back to sleep.

Of course, Sherlock would have different scheme in life.

_"John." _The doctor flinches. _"Well that's one mystery solved,"_ John thinks forcing his eyes to remain closed. He didn't realize the detective is absent from the room. He just assumed the detective is currently sitting in the hard plastic chairs beside him, escaping into his mind palace, not making a noise. John ignores the genius, feigning sleep to get some more rest. He doesn't hear ruffling of clothes so John figures Sherlock thinks he is either sleeping or he has lost his gift. Either way, John appreciates the minutes of silence in the room. However, suddenly, John has a thought. The fact that he almost lost his gift of never hearing again, John suddenly dislikes the silence. _"You'll regret thinking that."_ He tells himself, picturing his mind exploding when Sherlock finds out he can still hear him.

_"John."_ John sighs and reluctantly opens his eyes. The detective isn't even in the room_, _John's face falls a little bit in disappointment, suddenly feeling as if the doctor isn't important enough to Sherlock. Not important enough to wait by his bed side, waiting for him to wake up. _"Watson, you were drugged, you've been out for who knows how long, you are in a hospital, with a forensic lab. Deduce."_ John yells at himself. His self is right, Sherlock is probably in one of the labs right now trying to find the make up of the drug.

_"John please hear me. Dull." _John snickers at Sherlock's thoughts._ _"What is doing? Getting distracted by shiny things? Chanting his name over and over again as he meanders the hospital hallways?" __John sniggers at the thought of Sherlock walking throughout the hallways deduce things about the people his passes.__ "That should last him all of five minutes."__

_"John, please wake up. New shoes." _John chuckles at the deductions that slip through._  
><em>

_"I'm lost without my telepath." _John's heart melts a little at the confession._  
><em>

_"John."_ John laughs at the whiny tone of the last thought. John thinks about sending the detective a text to come and sit next to him, but then John remembers the last time he held his phone was at Mycroft's and then being thrown across the floor to save Sherlock, it's probably broken somewhere. _"No loss there."_ John hated that phone anyway.

He hears shuffling and suddenly, a six foot form leaps into his room with glee. Sherlock shuts the door quickly, facing away from the doctor on the bed. John resists the urge to laugh out loud at the man's expression. The detective's face is flush with relief and frustration at the same time, with a tint of intention. John recognises this look, he has seen many men fall from that expression, including John himself.

"Who did you piss off? And why are you hiding in my room?" John asks surveying the genius in front of him.

"John! You are awake!" Sherlock turns abruptly and beams at John, his smile practically giving off solar flares. Sherlock straightens and walks over to the doctor, intertwining their hands together.

"How could I not be, my boyfriend keeps calling my name." John says smugly, feeling Sherlock's lilac and honey senses. A memory of Sherlock and John eating at Angelo's one of their first dates. John smiles at the memory.

Sherlock looks confused for a moment and then realisation hits.

"You can still read my mind." John smiles at Sherlock's happy expression. Sherlock sends another happy memory to John who readily accepts it beaming.

"It's kind of hard not to when your keeping me awake." John teases. He awaits for a reply from Sherlock but instead his body is ambushed by lanky arms and dark curls, embracing the doctor tightly.

"I'm so happy for you." Sherlock says, John grips the detective suspiciously.

"Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?" John asks him, weary of his this emotional detective and his polarizing behavior.

Sherlock straightens and sits down on the chair next to the doctor. John immediately regrets what he said, he would take an overly and newly emotional Sherlock over a stroppy and distant detective any day.

"Sherlock, I-" John starts.

"No, I'm just happy." Sherlock beams grabbing the doctor's hand and giving him a reassuring squeeze, like trying to convince John. A flash of Sherlock's memory intrudes John's brain pleasantly.

"Okay. I've never seen you like this," John narrows his eyes, "Are you high?"

_"Please, you are an idiot. You already know that my pupils aren't dilated."_ John rolls his eyes. _"Plus, I don't get happy when I'm high."_

"Okay. Then at least tell me why you are so happy." John prods, A flash of Sherlock's memory intrudes John's brain pleasantly. the memories is Sherlock seeing John awake, John revels in the lilac and honey as well as the overwhelming euphoria that the detective was feeling. John smiles stupidly at Sherlock when the memory is over. The doctor blushes slightly.

"Oh." Is all John says. Sherlock stands up and plants a kiss onto John's lips and pulls back before John has a chance to respond properly.

"Wait," John whines. "Where are you going?" Sherlock is already walking towards the door.

"I'm seeing if the coast is clear, John." Sherlock states simply, poking his head out of the door.

_"Good, I'll be back in a little bit. Sleep, you still need rest."_ John sighs and tries to call out to the detective, but the taller man is already out of the room. _"I love you."_

"I love you too, you irritating git." John says out loud to himself, snuggling into his bed and letting his eyes droop close.

* * *

><p>'A little bit', turned out to be three hours later.<p>

John is positively, absolutely, irrevocably bored. Yes bored. Even crap telly holds no interests for him and when crap telly can't entertain John Watson, shite is going to go down. The doctor sighs miserably, his eyes counting the dents in the ceiling tile, waiting for something exciting or at least the return of Sherlock, who he hasn't heard anything from the entire time. John tried to explore his mind but Sherlock noticed right away and silenced himself off from John. John is keeping the link open to annoy the detective, seeking revenge for leaving him alone.

The door opens and John doesn't look away from the ceiling, wallowing in his own misery.

A gentle pressure on his chest makes him look at the curly-haired man currently laying on his torso.

"John! Guess What?" Sherlock says leaning into the doctor and planting a kiss on his lips. John responds with fervor, making up for when the doctor left early. John tries to find the answer in Sherlock's memory, but all he gets is a warm hand on his torso, the detective pushing himself away.

"Stop cheating." Sherlock huffs, making a move to get off the bed.

"No. No, What is the good news?" John asks timidly gripping the detective, pulling him closer.

Sherlock's face curls up in a huge smile and takes up his previous position the bond between them warm and Sherlock is choosing for it to be silent. "I got an MRI." Sherlock giggles proudly, fumbling with an envelope in his hand, bringing out the piece of film, showing John the picture of Sherlock's brain._  
><em>

"Where? Wait, What?" John says bewildered.

"I may have borrowed the hospitals machine." Sherlock says confidently. "This hospital doesn't know how to lock doors properly."

"Why on earth would you get an MRI?" John asks incredulously. "I honestly though your ego wouldn't fit onto a single piece of transparency."

"I've seen your MRI," Sherlock states ignoring John's comment pointedly, "And there is nothing different from the average person's brain scan. But, I'm the only one who seems to have progressive success in regards to your abilities. I hypothesized that I may have an abnormality."

"Wait, I can read minds and you were worried that you have an abnormality?" John questions, his eyebrows raised teasingly.

"Yes, it's only logical." Sherlock responds.

"Yes..well logic..."John mumbles. "Sherlock nothing is logical about any of this." John says, a mix between exasperation and adoration of Sherlock's sheer eagerness.

"Yes, I know, but the more we can learn about it, the better when can know the limits." Sherlock says, already knowing that he has won, if there is one thing John cannot ignored is the base line curiosity that makes him hunger to master his skills.

John knows the logic and he knows his curiousity, John relents without argument. The doctor thought he knew all there was to know about his gift, but once Sherlock came into the picture, John realised how wrong he was.

John had barely scratched the surface of his ability. The genius helped John master his skills more in depth in the past few months than the doctor was able to do himself in the span of a year.

Together, they've learned distance limitations, they've learned how to block out white noise, without Sherlock around or course, that experiment holds little success and John doesn't like testing it often, he prefers to stick around Sherlock, his own private silencer, but it does help when the doctor is at work, away from Sherlock, so John can focus on his patients and not the incoherent thoughts of London.

John has also figured out that thoughts have a taste, well, actually after more research it turns out it's more than a taste, its a taste and a scent, mixed together with interestingly pleasant results. Sherlock found this intriguing and tried to make John only experience one or the other. This failed with an epic nosebleed, needless to say Sherlock benched that expereiemtn indefinitely, the detective is insanely adamant about not causing pain to John. Now he just tries to find the senses when he reads minds, and that's very rare nowadays, John still has impeccable self control.

So with the new information, John reevaluated those around him. Sherlock smells of lilac but taste of honey, the perfect mix that John loves from Sherlock.. Using the two senses allows John to pick his connection up easily no matter what, distant or the amount of people around.. The smell/taste isn't tangible like his physical senses. It's floating and always out there, John has to focus and open an outward, random connection like tendrils inthe open air hoping to catch something. Then when John senses taste/smell he can pick it up and then find and latch onto the senses unique to the person. It's a new part of his gift, a new part to experience with Sherlock. John smiles to himself at the thought.

After the taste/scent experiments (Sherlock stills insists on trying new foods to manipulate his scent/taste), John has bent some his rules to familiarize himself with the palate of those near him. Mrs. Hudson, in all her motherly glory, smells like cotton sheets and taste like cookies. Lestrade tastes of bacon and smells of grass, a very interesting mix but it works for the DI. John didn't even bother with Anderson or Donovan, not really intrigued to know what goes on in their heads.

Mycroft is by far the most unpleasant, not because of what his connection puts forward for senses, his bond is actually very sweet and pleasing, caramel and chocolate (Sherlock snorted when John told him of Mycroft's link, mumbling something about Mycroft always having a sweet tooth). The cold and unfeeling thoughts inside Mycroft disquiet the doctor, turning him off of probing. Not to mention, the fact that Mycroft notices when John explores, faster than Sherlock ever did, and Mycroft honestly, scares the absolute crap out of him. He avoids looking into the politician's mind at all cost, besides if he actually stumbles on a secret and Mycroft finds out, John is a dead man. He tries to stay away from the politician by any means.

Molly's connection is John's favorite, besides Sherlock's own, she smells of fresh grass and tastes of cinnamon. Whenever the two of them are at the morgue, he always opens the link briefly to envelop her connection. He does this rather guiltily and he refuses to tell anyone, although John is sure Sherlock knows.

The last thing that has improved over the last couple of months is John's reaction to unexpected severed links. Sherlock has helped him make the experience less painful. This experiment has been the most difficult to test, mostly because they had to get someone to touch John without rising suspicion or hurting John. In the end, Sherlock just asked Mrs. Hudson to touch John for an experiment. The landlady didn't even bat an eye at Sherlock's social niceties jargon excuses and laid a hand onto John's exposed forearm, John didn't probe her mind and instead chatted about crap telly, which Sherlock made notes occasionally lifted the old lady's hand off John at abrupt intervals.

The first time they tried this, John got a nosebleed. John convinced the poor woman that he was prone to them and it was completely random. They didn't try the experiment again for a week, Sherlock, being the apprehensive one in hurting John. The older man would bring it up and Sherlock would decline, stating it was too soon to try again. John eventually took matters into his own hands and invited Mrs. Hudson for tea and to try Sherlock's experiment again. She agree without hesitation, even teases the doctor about his nosebleed.

Sherlock was reluctant at first, but when John encouraged Mrs. Hudson to touch his forearm, Sherlock was forced to continue, forced being a strong word. John saw the pensive almost maniacal look on the detective's face.

John welcome her senses, the cotton and cookies filling his mind, he probes her mind gently and feels pure adoration coming from the landlady, John, until this moment, didn't realise how much he cared for the older women. Before he could continuing, the link was broken abruptly. John had flopped back to the couch but he only suffered a mild headache, not torrential nosebleeds. They were improvements.

These sessions are still ongoing, but John has gotten surprisingly better at dealing with severed links. it's astonishing simple, the solution is all about conditioning. John is learning that when touched, he automatically begins a safety barrier of his mind so he is ready instantly when the connection is broken. The results are fascinating, John never thought he would be able to master his ability like this.

However, John can't help but wonder if his new control is genuine, is it becoming easier and easier to be prepared for severed links because he's familiar with Mrs. Hudson or is it because he is actually getting better? _"John."_ Sherlock pulls him out of his thoughts.

John didn't hear any Sherlock's thoughts previously, granted the thoughts are weak and faint attempts while Sherlock is distracted at the two pieces of film in his hand, Sherlock had moved to the chair sometime in the span of John's thinking. _"Wait? Two pieces of black film?"_ John steels.

"Is that my MRI?" John asks, staring at the two pieces of black film in the detective's hand.

"Yes, how else am I supposed to compare?" Sherlock replies, eying him through the transparencies.

"How did you even get that? Do you just break into every office in the building?" John snorts.

"John, you are very sarcastic and grumpy this time around in the hospital." Sherlock states, after watching John for a couple of minutes.

"I'm sorry, "John sighs, "You're right, I'm anxious and bored." Sherlock intertwines their fingers and John relaxes at the silent connection.

_"Now you know how it feels."_

John huffs, _"Leave it to Sherlock to ruin the adorable moment."_ John thinks. He grips onto the detective regardless and they wait for the discharge papers, seeing how long he can ignore Sherlock's mental intrusions, just to teasingly spite the detective.

"That doesn't get you off, I still want to know how you got my MRI."

* * *

><p><em>Thoughts?<br>_


	10. Intruder at 221B Baker Street

Okay, so John has been self-righteous and in impeccable control. I'm feeling a situation were John loses it and throws the rules out the window.

There sorry that it took so long, been busy planning and executing a three year olds birthday party

Reviews are welcome

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>"Are we going to talk about Moriarty?" John asks one day. They have been dancing around the subject of the party for weeks now, Sherlock never wanting to discuss it and John a little apprehensive about bringing it up. Today, the two men are lounging about in the flat after a grueling case that lasted the entire week. John is sitting in his arm chair as usual and Sherlock is occupied with his microscope, seemingly looking at something interesting, John just sees a nasty green blob in a petri dish.<p>

"What about him?" Sherlock questions distantly, eyes still looking through his microscope.

"How about the fact that he drugged an entire party right under your brother's nose." John says, curiosity laced into his voice.

"Oh that." Sherlock states, _"Mycroft is still pissed about it."_

"What do you mean 'oh that'?" John ask, getting slightly annoyed by Sherlock's nonchalant attitude. Morairty is dangerous, he tried to kill the detective the first time they talked. What now? Will he try again?

"He just wanted to show me that he had the upper hand in the game." Sherlock says disinterestedly.

"The game? What game? That man tried to kill you." John asks incredulously. "What did he say to you on the phone?"

_"Nothing of importance, he said he wanted to meet and burn the heart out of me, crazy fan stuff."_ Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, obviously to lazy to talk out loud.

"Burn the heart... What?" John asks, seriously confused now.

_"Yes, John, I didn't stutter."_ John reels back at Sherlock's snappy tone.

"I don't get it. Who is this guy?" John questions ignoring the stroppiness.

"I don't know." Sherlock says, his voice uncharacteristically sad, as if Moriarty's words really scared him, and maybe they did, maybe Sherlock is scared of losing his heart, no matter how un-Sherlock it sounds. John softens his features, standing up, he walks to the kitchen.

"Sherlock, I won't let this guy get to you." John says, looking the genius right in the eye. Sherlock fidgets abnormally under the gaze. Sherlock is hiding something. John immediately grabs a hold of the detective and opens up the connection simultaneously catching the genius off guard. Sherlock gasp and John is able to find the memory of the phone conversation.

_"I see that you pet, Johnny boy is loyal. Seems a little drunk, or is it drugged." The Irish voice pierces through the memory. John can see Sherlock looking out onto the grounds.  
><em>

_"Who are you?" A deep baritone oozes confidence.  
><em>

_"I'm offended you should know me," The sing song voice of Moriarty causes John to shiver.  
><em>

_"I think I would remember a lunatic."  
><em>

_"That's the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me."_

_"Who are you?_

_"No need to get touchy. Moriarty is the name. "_

_"What do you want?"_

_"Well well Sherly, you are just all business. Fine, I'll play. I want to burn the heart out of you."_

_"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."_

_"I beg to differ, what about your..how should I put it...overly sensitive boyfriend." John can feel Sherlock tense at Moriarty's accusation.  
><em>

_"What are you talking about?" Sherlock keeps his voice neutral.  
><em>

_"Oh come on, don't tell me that you don't think something is different with Johnny boy."  
><em>

_"There is nothing different, when I find you, you are a dead man."_

_"No you won't. Besides, I'd be more worried about Johnny and your predicament."_

The whole memory takes about two seconds to play through John's mind.

A break of glass and the feeling of falling is the last thing that John hears, Sherlock yanks his hand out of John's grip, silencing the mental connection at the same time. John reels back, his body staggers, finding the counter behind him. The doctor leans on it for support, his head is in an unfamiliar daze. The memory is powerful, more powerful than normal, he grips his head as a headache starts to form, the dull throb erupts in his mind, and John can feel blood seep from his nose.

"Oh my god, John." He hears Sherlock's voice of concern. John takes deep breaths trying to reign in his headache, he immediately breaks the mental connection with Sherlock off and focuses solely on trying to get in control. He feels hands on his clothed torso and back, John flinches reflexivity, he relaxes when he doesn't feel pain. He allows Sherlock to guide him into the living room and onto the sofa. Hands leave him and John relaxes into the cushions.

His mind is in confusion. This has never happened with Sherlock before, especially not with a connection break.

_"John." _John winces at the intrusion.

"Not yet, Sherlock." John hisses, he takes the two paracetamol from the detective's long fingers, who drops the pills in his hands to avoid hurtful contact. Instead, his mind is reeling, but his headache is subsiding. John's confusion comes to the forefront of the doctor's mind, Why was the break so violent, what if it's because of the chilling memory, the powerful memory. What if it is somehow connected to Moriarty.

"I'm sorry, John. I shouldn't have pulled away." Sherlock is apologising. _"Watson, you are either a really good influence or a really bad one."_ John can't but chuckle to himself, his headache almost gone, leaving behind a minimal tolerable throb. John opens his eyes that he hadn't realised he had closed. Sherlock is sitting across from him on the coffee table, his hands reaching out mid air awkwardly, like he wants to touch John but very afraid.

John sighs and closes the distance, grabbing Sherlock's hand. He winces slightly at the contact, more out of apprehension than actual pain, in fact no pain follows. Sherlock grabs a nearby tissue and wipes John's nosebleed up. The blood is minimal and the nosebleed isn't that big of one, but it's enough to freak the detective out, to make the detective feel guilty for hurting John.

"It's not your fault, We didn't know that I could have this type of reaction with you." John says pulling the detective to the sofa once he is done, sitting side by side and then leaning into Sherlock and the warm connection. The feeling of safety and heat wash over John at the contact and the doctor knows it's Sherlock's doing even though the telepath can't see any thoughts or memories.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asks after a few minutes of silence. John opens the connection but hears silence on Sherlock's end. All evidence of an attack is gone, John's headache is almost gone and the pain from the connection is vanishing.

_"I didn't want to scare you."_ John tilts his head to see Sherlock's eyes. The detective is looking away purposefully, afraid of the emotional weakness he is showing.

"Come on, I was a soldier remember, It takes a lot more than that to scare me." John says smiling, cupping a hand over Sherlock's cheek, turning the detective's face so they look at each other. Sherlock returns the smile briefly before his face going neutral again. John decides to leave this conversation for later, when Sherlock isn't upset about hurting the doctor. Silence, externally and mentally envelop the pair sitting on the sofa.

"_I've been trying to figure out why you reacted so violently, John._" The genius questions after a few minutes, his shoulders sagging with defeat as if he is admitting his worse weakness. In a way, the detective is admitting a weakness, the fact that Sherlock can't conclude how and why John reacted the way he did, is a failure to the genius.

John squeezes Sherlock's hand reassuringly. "That memory was powerful, more powerful than normal. I think it has to do with Moriarty." John states, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

_"Why?"_

"He is the only common factor, his drug made me react different and his memory caused me to have a reaction, where I haven't had a reaction with you no matter how abrupt the connection is severed. It makes sense." John states nonchalantly. _"Oh."_ John sighs and rubs his temples as the last of the throbbing dissipates.

_"I am truly sorry John, I did not mean to hurt you." _Sherlock's thoughts are laced with guilty._  
><em>

"No, I shouldn't have pried, Besides, I don't condition myself around you so I wasn't prepared like I normally am." John states and lays his head down onto Sherlock's lap, their hands still linked. Sherlock instinctively puts a hand onto John's head, reluctantly at first, then Sherlock's fingers relax and stroke the doctor's head soothingly.

"We are going to have to do something about Moriarty." John states finally.

_"I know."_ Sherlock sighs, formulating a plan._  
><em>

* * *

><p>John walks back towards the flat after his short shift in surgery, not as tired as he normally is. After getting injected with the drug, Sherlock insists that John take it slow, even though it's been almost a month, but John has decides to humor the detective and only works part time. He still doubles up on gloves and he still wears his earphones, that is until gets within range of Sherlock. Nothing has really changed, no sign of Moriarty, John almost relaxes with the thought, almost. John turns onto Baker Street, his iPod already tucked securely into his jacket pocket now that he is in range of Sherlock.<p>

_"John." _The doctor sighs smugly, he kind of missed the detective's thoughts throughout the day, although he knew the detective is being quieter than normal, being quiet on purpose. John narrows his eyes at the thought of a secret detective and secretly wonders if he could pull it off.

_"John don't come into the flat."_ John huffs in a tinge of annoyance, he wasn't allowed in his own flat anymore. What kind of experiments is he doing now? John starts to work himself up and is three seconds away from running into the flat and demanding an explanation.

_"Shut up you idiot. There is an intruder. He is watching out the window, he can see you walking up the street, act normal."_ Sherlock's voice says, calm but verging on panic. John immediately stops half way down Baker Street, he resist the urge to look into the flat's windows. The doctor opens up the connection with a spurt of lilac and honey. He is impacted with the thoughts of Sherlock, they are calm and collected but John can sense Sherlock trying to silence his thoughts, either to not worry John or something is amiss. John doesn't push and realises that he should probably do something. He wonders if there is someone watching the flat on the outside also. He pulls his phone out of his pocket as he nonchalantly looks around the street, for any type of surveillance.

Living with Sherlock has taught John a few things, just because one cannot see something doesn't mean it's not there. Actually, it was Mycroft who taught him this, due the elder Holmes's obsession with CCTV.

It's all semantics.

John doesn't find anything out of the ordinary but the doctor decides to play it safe. John hangs his head with a sigh, not too over dramatic but enough to get his point across. He turns on his heels and walks away from the street, as if going to Tesco. Once he exists the street and turns right, John looks around quickly checking for tails.

_"John."_ The doctor is comforted by the thoughts as he plans. He ducks into an alleyway once he is sure he has nobody follow him. He opens up the connection again and this time is easier to probe the detective's mind.. He sees through Sherlock and into the flat. Sherlock is sitting on the couch based on the view that John is seeing. A masked man stands in front of the detective. John's breath hitches. The man has a gun pointed at Sherlock's head, his wrist bound and his head bleeding profusely. That's why Sherlock isn't silencing himself anymore.

John can feel the pain in Sherlock's mind easily and immediately gets angry. Who the hell is in the flat and how dare they? John pulls out his mobile and texts Lestrade and Mycroft. John finally finds the fire escape that leads to John's bedroom and starts to climb it, his thoughts angry and open to keep connected to Sherlock. He can see the man's mouth moving but Sherlock isn't recognises the words, due to pain or general disinterest, John wouldn't put it pass the detective to ignore an intruder because they bored him_.  
><em>

_"John, I think they are looking for you."_ John sighs, John stops climbing for a minute. Who would be looking for him? John shakes his head and climbs up to his room. When he gets to the window he notices it already open. This is how the man got in, he surprised John. The doctor slides in through the window and shuts it, locking it shut. He'll have to be more diligent on making sure that the window is locked from now on, considering how easily the intruder and John was able to get into the flat.

John toes of his shoes, to prevent more noise. He listens to Sherlock's jumbled pain and deductions of the intruder as the doctor rummages his room for his gun.

He tiptoes down the stairs avoiding the creaky ones, his gun in his hand.

He creeps along the hallway, peering into Sherlock to see where the man location is. The masked man is facing away from the door, so John peeks his head around, instantly meeting eyes with Sherlock's gray orbs. The detective's wrist are bound more meticulous than John had thought, ropes are tied around the genius creatively, wrapping around his wrists and then around the legs of the couch, securing Sherlock to the couch and preventing the genius from escaping.

_"John." _The sigh of relief almost makes John blow his cover. Instead he creeps silently into the room, his puts his gun into his waistband and advances silently. "_John, don't."_ Sherlock's worried thoughts echo. John turns his head and smiles at the bound and gagged detective, who looks okay, despite the head wound and the intricate bindings.

"You know, we have a door, you could knock." John states, startling the man, jumping on him before he has the chance to raise his own gun. They both fall to the ground and John wrestles the gun out of the masked man's hands. He ends up straddling the other man, the intruder's gun now in the hands of the ex-soldier, barrel pointed at the masked man's face.

"What do you want?" John spits angrily. The intruder's eyes widen and flash brightly.

"Mr. Moriarty sends his regards." The man says simply before grabbing John's bare neck, causing John to wince at the open connection but the doctor remains focused, the man grabs the gun swiftly out of John's hand and then flips them both over. John now lays underneath him, the man weighing more than he looks. John struggles beneath the mammoth, the connection starting to smell of sewer, John tries to shut the link off, not wanting to familiarize himself with the man. The man grips his neck tighter.

_"Do he know?" _John can barely hear Sherlock's thoughts over the man's memories flashing through John's head. Memories of dead people, corpses laying in alleyways. The man is a hit man.

The intruder pushes his knees into John's side tighter, causing John to gasp in pain. John tries to think past the thoughts and figure out a plan.

_"I don't know why boss finds you interesting but I guess I don't really care. I'm just doing my job." _The intruder thinks. John blinks at him in confusion. Does he know? John doesn't give anything away, he struggles as if he didn't hear the man.

"I don't know why boss finds you interesting, I don't really care. I'm just doing my job." John gives out a sigh in relief. The man holding him down didn't like that, his eyes flash with anger and he points the gun at John's temple.

_"_I've been shot before, I don't really wish to be shot again," John states writhing beneath the man.

"I know Dr. Watson. I'm not here to shot _you_." The man states, removing the gun from John's temple and aiming at Sherlock. John eyes widen in fear.

"No. Shoot me." John cries out.

_"Shut up John." _Sherlock thoughts call out. John struggles harder, willingly going into the connection with the sewer smelling man and trying to find something to deter him. An image of a little blond girl with a small backpack pops up, _Amelia_ is written on the backpack.

"What about Amelia, who will look after her when I kill you for killing Sherlock." John remarks angrily, his sides hurting from the man's grip and his neck bruising.

"How do you know about her?" The man states angrily, bringing the gun back to John, placing it right over his heart.

_"John. Don't."_ John ignores Sherlock's pleas. The strain of two connections at once is starting to take it's toll on John, but he doesn't dare break either one, Sherlock's for comfort and the intruder's for necessity.

"Oh, so you do care about her." John teases, smiling menacingly.

"Shut up about her." The man yells and then John feels a sudden pain across his cheek. His head is thrown to one side because of the force. John, hazily, brings his head back to look at the man. "You don't get to talk about my little girl." The intruder says as John tries to focus again on his connection. A thought from the man pops into his head, it's a thought of aiming the shot to shoot Sherlock.

"NO!" John yells and using all his strength to move beneath the man, he manages to sit up a little bit and push the man back just as the trigger is fired. The room becomes quiet, but John can feel the two connections still.

"NO. SHERLOCK!" John bellows beneath the man. He looks over at the detective. His body is sprawled across the couch awkwardly, ropes preventing the genius from lying down. "Sherlock!" John screams, seeing blood seeping from the detective's shirt. Another pain hit John's face, causing him to fall back onto the ground, his head hitting the floor with a thud. Black spots invade the doctor's vision for a second. John's mind becomes fuzzy and it's getting harder and harder to be prepared for the breaking of the connection and maintaining the two bonds.

"Ah, you made me miss," The intruder says with mock sadness, leaning down to a dazed John, whispering into his ear, tightening the grip against he back of the doctor's neck. "Maybe I will wait a little bit and let the skinny guy be in pain before I kill him. I always like watching them suffer." The intruder says. John bucks his hips against the man.

"Sherlock." He gasp out between the headache forming and his vision attempting to refocus.

_"I'm okay, I'm okay. It's just the shoulder."_ Sherlock's thoughts pierce into John's mind painfully. John struggles even more than before.

"What do yo want?" John snaps, trying to probe Sherlock's mind in order to feel how much pain Sherlock is in. John winces and gasp when he feels the shoulder pain.

"I told you Moriarty sent me." The intruder says. "And as much fun as this is, I'm pretty sure the elder Holmes will be here soon so I have to wrap it up." With that, the intruder lifts up his gun more and aims at Sherlock, this time at the head. John's fuzziness clears for a split second and is instantly replaced by pure, adulterated anger. John feels the connection and digs deep into his minds, trying to clamp onto something, anything, he wants to hurt this man, he wants the man to feel pain.

Suddenly, the intruder arches his back in pain and falls to one side, his body limp and unmoving, his grip releases John who immediately struggles away from him, panting. He grabs the man's gun and instantly runs to Sherlock.

"Sherlock. Sherlock can you hear me?" John yells at the limp form of the detective, who eyes are closed.

_"Sh. Of course, stop yelling."_ Sherlock moans in pain. John rips open his shirt and starts to probe the bullet hole. Sherlock opens his eyes at the pain, wincing at the examination.

Sherlock's eyes scan around the room, finding anything to distract from the pain. His eyes find the unmoving intruder.

"John, what did you do?"


	11. All The Feels

_Oh my lord._

_I love you all, thanks so much for the reviews._

_This chapter is okay, I just needed it really to get from one point to another._

_Anyways, Reviews are lovely, so are prompts or things that should happen in the story._

_Peace&Love_

* * *

><p><em>Intruder in the flat. Come if you want, Sherlock's hurt. - JW<em>

Mycroft stares at the text message, that he received some twenty minutes ago, in the back of his speeding sedan. Greg, who happened to be with Mycroft at the time, sits next to him, looking at his similar text message from John.

The black sedan screeches to a stop in front of Baker Street.

* * *

><p><em>"John what did you do?"<em>

John quickly glances over at his shoulder at the dead man on the floor. John doesn't feel anything, he should feel regret at the dead man, he should feel fear and panic at how the man came to be dead, he should be freaking out. Instead, the doctor feels nothing, his thoughts focused solely on the bleeding detective in front of him.

"Sherlock are you hurt anywhere else?" John asks, in full doctor mode, ignoring the detective's question. He runs a hand over the roped genius.

Sherlock tries to shake his head but winces in pain.

_"Just my head and shoulder."_ Sherlock thoughts claim, his tone subdued and listening, making John's panic grow. The detective never makes things easy. John dashes up from the sofa and runs to the kitchen, he fetches a towel, his medical bag is upstairs and Mycroft would be there soon followed by an ambulance. If John can keep pressure on the wound, Sherlock should last until the paramedics get here.

_Should._

_"Will. Sherlock will make it._" John yells at himself.

After he grabs the towel, he runs over to the mantle, yanking the pen knife out of the ornate wood, letters and bills scattering the floor with the draft of John rushing by.

He runs back to the genius, cutting the ropes fast but gently, slashing the constricting tendrils of Moriarty.

"Sherlock, you got to stay with me okay. Keep talking." John shouts at the detective, the last of the ropes falling away from the younger man. The genius, goes limp and starts listing sideways. John grabs a hold of him gently and guides him down to the sofa. Sherlock's eyes are closed still and his breathing is ragged. "Sherlock." John's voice is full of panic and concern, but his hands are still and his mind clear.

_"Ow."_ Sherlock's thoughts are fuzzy and dry, the detective is trying not to display how much his body, his transport, is actually hurting him.

Without hesitation, John presses the towel onto Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock jolts, his face twisting in pain and his eyes bursting open with a gasp of pain.

_"This is what it feels like to get shot."_ John snorts, brushing curls off the detective's sweating forehead.

"Welcome to the club." He says dryly, checking Sherlock's vitals and pulse. The warmth of lilac and honey fading in and out as John makes and breaks links as he moves around the detective's body. John watches as Sherlock closes his eyes again, the pain coursing through him. John delves into the detective's unguarded thoughts, in too much pain to silence himself. John accesses Sherlock's pain level through his thoughts. John almost cries out in pain once he feels Sherlock's pain._ "Talk about sympathy pains."_ John thinks darkly.

"Sherlock." John expels sadly, grabbing the man's hand. The connection opens instantly and the feelings of lilac and honey come back, this time distant and dull. John instantly seeps with worry. Sherlock is always dramatic and vibrant, nothing in the genius's head is meant to be dull. He squeezes Sherlock's hand, trying to dispel feelings of safety, calm and warmth. John sees the detective's body relax a fraction.

"Are you doing that?" Sherlock asks out loud, in gasps.

"Shh..don't talk." John soothes, the kitchen towel now soaked with blood, John's hand beginning to stain.

_"Fine, Mother hen. Are you doing that?"_ Sherlock thoughts shout impatiently.

"Did it work?" John asks, amazed at a new aspect of his ability despite the situation.

_"I feel calm and safe."_ Sherlock tries to push a memory out but halfway through gives up, his pain distracting him. _"I didn't know you could do that. What else..."_

"Another time, when you aren't bleeding to death on the sofa maybe." John says frantically, pushing harder onto the detective's shoulder. Angry tears threatening to spill, as the blood seeps through his fingers, the life literally weeping out of Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Lestrade is the first one out of the sedan and up the stairs, Mycroft follows behind him with agile astuteness.<p>

Lestrade and Mycroft freeze in the doorjamb of the sitting room.

Mycroft notices everything right away. Masked intruder, dead, no visible wounds, wrestled on the floor with John probably. Drops of blood around the sofa, Sherlock, bleeding shot and possible concussion.

Lestrade only sees the blood and his training kicks in. "Bloody hell." Lestrade exclaims, rushing over to the doctor, his face stricken and confused.

"Ambulance is on it's way." Mycroft states, staying at the doorway, if it was anyone other than Mycroft, John would assume that the politician is frozen in shock. John sighs in relief.

"He's losing a lot of blood." Lestrade states, his hands ghosting over the thin man, uncertainty clouding his thoughts.

Sherlock's eyes close again, his breathing because even more laboured.

"Sherlock stay with me, keep talking." John encourages, gripping the genius's hand tighter.

_"Fine, what shall I talk about?"_ The detective thoughts are jumbled and getting weaker. John has to resist the urge to answer the detective. The doctor's response may go unnoticed by Lestrade, but definitely not Mycroft.

John forces himself into Sherlock's mind, bringing up happy memories that the detective has shown John before. He only has to bring up two memories before Sherlock takes over, showing John his favorites memories. John watches the thoughts in his head idly, silent tears falling, the memories surprisingly comfort the doctor. Not to mention the fact that if Sherlock can control the memories that John sees, it means he is still coherent and alive.

He pushes down on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezes the detective hand, everything silent, until the front door burst open and the paramedics rush in.

John doesn't realises how silent the flat is until the bustling of paramedics enters the sitting room, almost hurting the doctor's ears. The doctor moves out of the way quickly, giving Sherlock's hand one more squeeze before breaking contact.

_"John."_

He hovers over the paramedics not really watching what they are doing, instead listening to Sherlock's thoughts.

_"Dull, I hate hospitals."_ Weak phrases would come to the forefront of Sherlock's mind in between fading memories. John can tell the detective is going to lose consciousness soon, he tries to send waves of cold, yet comforting feelings to keep the detective awake. For a millisecond, John smugly sees a shiver run through the detective's body.

_"John." _The thought is full of pain and panic. John's heart breaks._  
><em>

One second, that's all the time it takes for John's entire world comes crashing down, stopping in it's revolve. The connection goes suddenly silent, stopping mid-thought and the connection severs. John gasps harshly, forcing himself not to react to the pain in his head. Instead, he focuses on the senses of lilac and honey leaving the doctor and John's eyes grow wide in alarm. John scans the genius, his face is lax and his eyes are shut, not tightly out of pain. The hairs on the back of John's neck stand up, something is wrong.

"Sherlock!" John screams and dashes over to the detective to find his pulse, no connection happens, no bouts of warmth and lilac/honey. The paramedics are startled by the short man, screaming at them, the haven't any time to react to Sherlock's cardiac arrest. John's head explodes and he can feel the nose bleed, the doctor has never been connected with someone who has died on the spot.

"There is no pulse!" John screams at the paramedics, about to push them out of his way when strong arms grab the soldier around the waist. John fights against the stronghold trying to get back to the detective. His head pulsating and his arms flailing.

"John, calm down. They are doing CPR right now." He vaguely hears Lestrade over his own screaming. John watches in horror, writhing underneath the DI's grip and repeating the detective's name over and over again.

One Second, that's all the time it takes for John's world to start up once again. A struggling breath escapes Sherlock's lips. John stops struggling and concentrates, his face wet with tears and blood from when the intruder backhanded him. He searches for lilac and honey, the senses are distant but John latches on with full force. Sherlock's thoughts are jumbled and repeating words, mostly John's name but nothing makes sense.

"Sherlock." John calls out softly, the grip around his waist tightening, John watches horrified as the paramedics load the detective on the stretcher and away.

* * *

><p>John sits on the hospital chairs. He doesn't feel anything. The doctor's legs are curled against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees uncomfortably, the blood soaked shirt sticking to him, mixed with Sherlock blood and the blood from John's torrential nose bleed. John stays in this position despite the ache in his leg and his shoulder.<p>

Sherlock has been in surgery for four hours and John is losing his patience. He remembers storming into the hospital, a whirlwind of emotions and demands, Lestrade and Mycroft trailing behind him. He terrorized nurses and doctors demanding that someone inform him of the detective's condition. His temper tantrum would have put any of Sherlock's fits to shame. Eventually, Mycroft and Lestrade rallied the apoplectic doctor into a hospital chair to talk sense in him and have someone look him over. It took both men to calm the doctor down enough to allow a nurse to treat his bruised face and bloodied face. Finally, Lestrade and Mycroft were able to calm the doctor's thoughts and make him see reason. John instantly apologised for his behavior and instantly went silent and remained that way while he waited.

Mycroft left first, he received a very heated call. By the time he announced he had to leave for a short while, his face was red with frustration and irritation.

Lestrade left next, in quite a similar manner. He also got a call, this time from Sally, he had to go back to Baker Street. His reasons were vague and John didn't care enough to read his thoughts.

In fact, he barely remembers either of them leaving. He is just sitting staring at the wall opposite, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, shielding him from bad news, protecting him from the extreme and sad possibilities. John sits there scanning the entire hospital, looking for lilac and honey. One time, he got the faintest hint of lilac and latched on immediately only to realise seconds later that it was a nurse on the third floor. John held the connection for a little bit, he has never done this before, blindly finding and following an unfamiliar connection. John probes the naive nurse seeing how far he can dive into her thoughts.

After a while, John gets bored and breaks the connection, the nurse offered a welcome distraction but John just wants to hear, feel, see, hold Sherlock. He buries his head further into his knees, his eyes long dried up from the constant tears, but he can feels his eyes welling again. He tries to blink back his tears as he waits.

The sound of a door creaking open registers in John's mind, but he doesn't lift his head to see who came through the doors, his own despair and exhaustion clouding his judgement.

"Sherlock Holmes?" A confident voice calls out. John immediately jumps to his feet and looks at the doctor. His eyes are a muddy brown, while his hair is graying. He is easily into his early forties and his face is kind and confident. Probably been a doctor for ten years or more.

"How is he?" John doesn't bother with formalities. His mind is already going through the man's face and the man's thoughts. He purposefully breaks one of his rules and invades the man's mind without hesitation. He sees an image of himself, haggard, blood soaked and dried in the doctor's shirt. John listens for news of Sherlock. Why isn't this doctor think about his patient? Why is he thinking about something else?

"Are you family?" John senses the suspicion in the doctor's thoughts. John resist his frustration and the urge to scream at the doctor until his voice is hoarse.

"I'm Dr. John Watson, I'm his doctor, his brother, Mycroft, left me to tend to him." John remarks, his voice angry and snippy.

"Okay, well, the bullet was a through and through, missing most of the important stuff. We were mostly worried about blood loss, but we gave him three blood transfusions and his vitals are looking good. It'll be touch and go for a while and he is still unconscious due to the morphine. He will be in a lot of pain for the next forty eight hours, but after that he should be able to go home and rest there." John sees the images of Sherlock as the man relays the information. An image of Sherlock lying motionless on a gurney. The image of the detective losing blood.

John breaks the mental connection suddenly, not wanting to see more. Tears are streaking down his face, thankfully the doctor looks at John with sympathetic eyes, assuming that John is emotional about the new information.

"When can I see him?" John questions in a huff. The doctor only looks at him sternly but gently.

"I would recommend coming back tomorrow, when Mr. Holmes has gotten settled into his room. Visiting hours are almost over."

No way in hell is John waiting until tomorrow.

"Thank you doctor," John states after a couple of seconds, offering his hand out to the man and they shake hands. In the split second, the contact gives John the ability to explore the man's thoughts, beside his affair with his intern John found out Sherlock's room number.

After their handshake breaks, the doctor leaves. John, being a doctor, knows St. Barts like the back of his hand. He immediately leaves the waiting room and takes a long but successfully ninja-like route to Sherlock's room.

* * *

><p>John finds the room.<p>

221. Fitting.

John scans the darken hallway for nurses and sees none, he opens his mental connections in search for nearby thoughts, nothing shows up on either external or mental scan. The doctor slowly opens the door and enters the room, making as little noise as possible.

John lets his self-control loose and flings himself to the detective's bedside. The younger man is gaunt and exhaustion is clear on his face, but his features are slack and peaceful.

"Probably the most sleep he has had in days." John thinks to himself.

He hesitantly reaches his hand out, letting it hover undecided over the detective's skin. John chooses to gently take Sherlock's hand. The connection opens up with colors, just like when the detective is dreaming. Red is the prominent color this time, John has to resist the urge to throw up when he realises that the red is blood. It's crimson branches taking over Sherlock's unconsciousness.

John tries to look underneath the red for the memory that is hidden, like he normally does when Sherlock sleeps. Instead, the memories all mush into one and run rapidly throughout John's mind, none of them stopping long enough for John to comprehend. John senses the fear and pain that the detective is fearing in his dream.

John pushes soothing warmth and thoughts of safety into Sherlock's thoughts. He sits on the chair next to the detective's bed, conveying the comforting thoughts, feelings, sentiment, hoping that the genius will calm, not really sure if it will work, he is at least trying, this aspect is a little new to him.

He never, in his entire life, thought that he would be able to transfer any part of his gift to another person, especially feelings. In that moment, John makes a decision, when, yes when, not if, Sherlock wakes up, the doctor will gladly let the man do any experiment he wants and the doctor will not complain or try to sabotage the results.

John notices the detective's thoughts calming down and the memories flashing slower. John watches some of the images for a while, his head laying on Sherlock's hand, after a while he just closes his eyes reveling in the comfort of the alive man in front of him, falling asleep in the warmth of lilac and honey.

* * *

><p>Sherlock knows he isn't awake, he knows that he is unconscious, but in a different level of wakefulness than previously, he can't feel his physical body but he is aware of his surroundings. He mind momentarily panics and Sherlock tries to move. Instead, he calms as he feels warmth, safety, comfort, love, tenderness and a base line of anxiety filter in his thoughts. He tries to find purchase on his own memories, trying to control them and bring them to surface, to comfort the anxious John.<p>

He knows John is the reason for these feelings, but he can't seem to find his own memories as to why he knows this. For a minute, Sherlock thoughts scream in alarm, he panics that maybe he forgot who he is. He dives deeper and soon realisies that he has memories, he just can't control them and bring them to the forefront. Pain, panic and the longing to get back to John are his priorities and he can't seem to drop them in a chance to comfort himself through his memories.

The detective hopes John won't be mad that he couldn't comfort the doctor, that he is too weak to control his memories.

With that thought Sherlock falls into a fitful slumber.

* * *

><p>John's shoulder and neck are stiff from the position he feel asleep in. He doesn't move, instead grips the lean fingers in his hand tighter, reassuringly. John lets his forehead lay on the cool fingers a little while longer as he again, tries to find the memories of Sherlock. The colors are gone and John feels Sherlock presence more.<p>

A wave of panic flashes through John. John's head snaps up and looks directly into the detective's face. Sherlock's face is slack like before, no evidence of pain.

John focuses more on the thoughts of the genius. He can feel Sherlock calm down on his own, but he sends more feelings towards the detective, not able to forgo his own anxiety. John stands up, his leg protesting, John ignores it and moves closer to the bed, running his other hand in Sherlock's dark curls.

John finds no memories in Sherlock, he feels the panic and alarm that Sherlock is feeling presently but no images.

Suddenly, Sherlock's connection becomes vibrant with coloring, the man falling asleep again.

John sighs in resignation and waits more.

* * *

><p>"Okay Sherlock. Now it's time to wake up." John whispers into the detective ear.<p>

The night passed uneventfully, John had fallen asleep again and was woken up by a nurse checking on Sherlock. The doctor looked at her menacingly. He was told he could stay and his expression changed instantly, flashing her a sheepish smile.

Now John is bored._ "I need to stop being around Sherlock."_ John thinks to himself.

He wants to talk to Sherlock, he wants to see the icy gray eyes of the detective. John misses the genius and his ego.

John strokes the top of Sherlock's hand, looking in the detective's thoughts. He is in a lighter level of wakefulness at the moment, feelings and the occasion of image flash though the detective's mind. John is tempted to dive into his thoughts and force him out of his slumber, but resist the urge for fear of causing more damage, especially because of the concussion.

A pang of longing hits John straight in his chest, almost falling backward because of the sudden burst of emotion coming from the detective.

"Sherlock. Wake UP!" John practically screams. Sherlock's eyes flutter and his thoughts become more alert.

_"John."_

"Yes, that's right Sherlock. Open those eyes." John soothes, images start to fuzz in and out of the detective's mind.

_"John."_ Sherlock thoughts puff out. Within a minute, the detective's eyes are fluttering, John is leaning over the genius body, his free hand cupping the younger man's face.

Icy gray orbs find John, slightly unfocused and blurred.

"Sherlock." John lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

"John." His voice is raspy from disuse but John enjoys the deep baritone. He embraces the detective gingerly, not willing to let go...ever.

* * *

><p><em>Oh and by the way, shameless self-promoting. I wrote the most tragic fic the other day, you should read it. Love is Temporary Madness.<em>

_Be prepared with ice cream and tissues._


	12. Yeah, this screams Mycroft

So just let me complain that I had written half of this chapter and then went to save and FF crapped out so I had to write it again.

Never Fear, I think I might have made it a little bit better, but nevertheless this is why it's taking a bit to update.

Anywhoo, Reviews are lovely, flattery is better.

Good new: This chapter is uber, uber long.

Bad News: I'm leaving until Sunday the 4th. So it'll be awhile, but once I come back, the updates will be fluid.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p><em>"Bored."<em> John nearly drops his mug. He knows he should be use to this by now, he knows that Sherlock likes to announce how bored his is, yet whenever the thoughts intrude John can't help but be surprised. The doctor has lost count of how many mugs have lost their lives to Sherlock's outbursts.

_"Bored!" _John sighs, he ignores the detective and keeps eating his toast, reading the paper in the little space that isn't filled with experiments or the detective's microscope, at the crowded kitchen table. He hears rustling of Sherlock's dressing gown against the couch, where the temporarily invalided man is 'resting'. John snorts, Sherlock doesn't do 'resting'. He does dangerous chases throughout London, he does numerous insults to Anderson and Donovan, he does flippant deductions to strangers. He doesn't do resting, the genius doesn't sit at home, bed ridden his arm in a sling and his injured shoulder immobilsed to the best of John's ability. Try making a violinist stare at his violin all day without twisting his injury in discomfort in order to play said violin in his boredom.

Thank god Lestrade is bringing over cold cases for the detective to work on while he heals.

Believe it or not, they just got home from the hospital three days ago, and this is the first time that Sherlock has announced his boredom. John honestly thought it would have been sooner. Instead, the detective actually sleep the first day back, or more like passed out from exhaustion. Although the detective will never admit it, getting shot in the shoulder actually tired the man, more so than John ever thought possible. John didn't say a word, he let the younger man sleep, and John was happy to sleep right next to him, for his own selfish, comforting needs. John spent that day with his arms wrapped tightly, protectively around the detective, watching the colors and the images, both positive and negative ones, fill the genius's sleeping brain. John even tried controlling some of his dreams, when the detective started to see too much red, John would intervene and bring up happy memories with purples and blues and yellows.

For the most part it worked, Sherlock didn't have any nightmares and when he woke up from his almost day long slumber, he appeared to be extremely well rested, more well rested than John had ever seen him.

_"Bored," _ John finishes the last of his breakfast and deposits his plate in the sink. Taking extra care in washes the plate to make sure it is sparkly clean.

_"Are you ignoring me John?" _The doctor resist the urge to snigger at the petulant tone of the detective. Instead, as he refills his tea, he decides to open up the connection between them and push warming thoughts and feelings to 'entertain' the detective, a technique he mastered yesterday.

On the second day, John wanted to prolong the inevitable and declared the detective could experiment with the doctor's telepathy as long as the two didn't leave the house. Sherlock, gleefully and almost devilishly agreed. The spent most of the day working on enhancing John's ability to influence emotions and feelings into another person, first through tactile methods and then solely through mental connections.

John easily mastered the tactile techniques and could make Sherlock feel safe and warm and calm and happy and euphoric. Then John could make Sherlock feel, very reluctantly on John's part, angry and sad and grief-stricken (so much that the detective had tears coming down his face in which John quickly brought back the euphoria) and frustration.

The doctor spent most of the day in shock in the new aspects of his ability.

Sending the feelings without touching was a little harder for John. At first, he had to really focus on Sherlock, inhale the lilac and taste the honey until it consumed him. Then he was able to transfer safety and happiness. Sherlock admitted they were weak compared to the tactile method, but with practice they could become stronger.

The detective made John enhance the feelings vibrancy by testing it out on the passerbys of Baker Street from the window. John was reluctant but one look at Sherlock's smile and the genius's arm in a sling, John gave in wholeheartedly.

He latched onto a women walking down the street, clad in a fake fur coat and sleek black high heels, her walking was fast and jagged. John opened up the connection and closed his eyes to situate himself into her mind. She was thinking about a new editorial for work and how her deadline was soon, John ignore her ramblings and instead tried to find her senses. He didn't smell the roses right away, he had to dip in and out of her thoughts and look underneath the surface to find the smell. Once he found the scent, he picked up on her coffee taste easily. All in all, her senses were nice and appealing even. John lets the senses flow through him and immediately planted a calming feeling, he opened his eyes and found the woman had slowed down significantly and a smile had shone on her lips.

John beamed with happiness. Something about having the ability to control someone else's happiness make John blissful and feel useful, deep down it also scared him, the power he held over people's minds scared the doctor more than he is willing to admit.

He pushed more thoughts of calm into the woman as he back out slowly. Her pace stayed languid all the way down Baker Street, the calm still insider her. John wondered idly how long she would feel his influence.

The doctor turned to look at Sherlock and smiled, the detective beamed back, his eyes crinkling with...pride...happiness. John didn't know, he instead wrapped his arms around the detective, letting his own happiness and euphoria fill the sitting room.

For the rest of the afternoon, John stared out the window of 221B Baker Street, influencing people's moods.

He did this for multiple reasons,

1. This is for experiment purposes, John will not have another opportunity to do this to people unless for emergencies, so he wanted to 'practice' as much as he could.

2. It makes the doctor happy to see someone who looks so sad walking down the street to looking extremely happy and practically skipping. It makes John proud that he can turn people's emotions around. (Then again, John couldn't help but wonder if influencing other peoples' feelings was just like giving false hope, feelings that don't exist. _"Does that really matter? They get to feel happy, they don't know it's you who is doing it. They just feel happy. That's enough."_ Sherlock had stated when John voiced his concerns. The detective could be sentimental when he wanted to).

3. No extreme side effects came up which means it is relatively safe to do this type of telepathy

4. Sherlock once never claimed he was bored, as he watched John's smile grow wider and wider each time he made someone else happy.

By the end of the experiment/afternoon, John's face was practically smashed up against the glass like a child at a candy store. Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh and pulled John to the sofa where the spent the night watching crap telly and snuggling. John occasionally sending blissful feelings into Sherlock, the detective didn't mind because the thoughts were already there, Sherlock was already happy.

* * *

><p>So as Sherlock lays on the couch, expressing his boredom to John's mentality. John takes he newly found gift aspect and uses it for the greater good. He pushes thoughts of calm and serenity into the detective, causing the petulant man-child to calm down, relax and heal.<p>

"That's not fair." Sherlock yells to the doctor. John just laughs and walks into the sitting room, bringing his new mug of tea with him. He plops down onto the chair and grabs his laptop. He hasn't updated his blog since before the intruder and it is in need of some new posts.

_"Bored." _

John continues to ignore the man and the pair sit in silence for awhile. Sherlock deciding to go silent much to the relief of John.

Sherlock decides to break that silence an hour later.

"John, how did you...how did you kill that man?" Sherlock stammers uncertainly. John doesn't react to the question, he just continues typing, continues what he is doing, mostly because there is nothing to react to. Lestrade had asked the same question, albeit differently. It was the reason he left the hospital, Donovan noticed the man had no wounds on him and immediately suspected weirdness from the two men who live at Baker Street, even though they were the ones who were attacked.

Lestrade came back sometime during Sherlock's stay at the hospital and got both their statements, particularly how the man died. John told Lestrade the truth, that he didn't know. One minute the man was fighting and struggling, pinning John down and pointing a gun at Sherlock and the next, he was down, dead next to him. John suggested aneurism or heartattack. Lestrade believed the doctor's story, and why shouldn't he? It would be more farfetched to explain that John is a telepath who somehow managed to dig into another man's mind and kill him.

_"John."_

"I don't know, Sherlock." John replies honestly, he should feel remorse for killing that man, he should feel fear at how he did it, he should feel apprehension at how strong his gift is and how potentially dangerous he could be. Instead he feel relief, relief that Sherlock is alive, relief that both of them are still able to fight another day.

"Did you do it with your mind?" Sherlock asks timidly, John stops typing and whirls his head to look at the detective. The younger man is shifting in discomfort, John can't quite place what the detective is feeling, then suddenly John gets a thought.

"You are scared of me." John says, his tone a little sad and wary. The doctor turns his head back to the blurring keyboard in front of him. He knew this day would come, the day when Sherlock Holmes figures out how much of a freak and dangerous John Watson is. John wallows in self-pity for a few minutes, his eyes unfocused in thought and his emotions running wild.

"No." Sherlock states confidently.

"What?" John asks stupidly, looking at the detective once again.

"No, I'm not scared of you. In fact, there are exactly, three hundred and forty three things I would list as being scarier than you." Sherlock remarks, his arms crossed. John looks at him incredulously. Not sure, whether or not to yell at him for his stupidity at keeping a dangerous element in his flat or to ask him about the things that scare him more.

"I'm dangerous now. I've killed a man with my brain." John speaks, his voice in a sad whisper, but not enough to realise the complete ridiculousness of his statement.

"Well he wasn't a very nice man." Sherlock repeats in an imitation of John's voice, his face lit in a smile. John relaxes right away and smiles back.

"Please, I don't sound like that." John says putting his laptop down and moving to the sofa, he sits next to Sherlock and leans into him. Sherlock just smiles back, his body de-stressing from the conversation.

"I've got a whole list of experiments we can try." Sherlock states after a minuter or two.

"Considering that we were just talking about my brain and the ability to kill someone, excuse me if I refuse your experiments." John states, standing up in a mock appalled tone.

_"But John..."_ Sherlock whines, his thoughts pushed out in a huff.

* * *

><p>Heavy steps thunder up the stairs of Baker Street a couple of hours later.<p>

"Lestrade." They both say in unison. John looks at Sherlock who smiles back at him.

John jumps up and walks to the kitchen.

"It's open." Sherlock calls disinterestedly. Lestrade burst through the door in a huff.

"In a hurry?" Sherlock remarks looking at the disheveled appearance of the DI.

"Tea?" John calls from the kitchen.

"No. no. I've got to get to a crime scene." Lestrade says waving his hands.

"No." John calls as he walks out of the kitchen and towards Sherlock, the detective huffs and the previous expression of curiosity and glee leave the younger man's face.

_"John._" The genius whines. John just stares sternly back.

"No, Sherlock, no active duty." John scolds. "You are healing."

Sherlock flails back onto the cushions of the sofa, wary of his injured shoulder, he scoffs and turns he head away from the two men.

"I'm just here to drop these off." Lestrade says placing a substantial pile onto the coffee table, albeit rather awkwardly. The DI has truthfully seen the detective worse so he gets over the discomfort quickly.

"You should have texted I would have picked them up." Sherlock says, his tone perking up and unusually polite, John sees right through it.

"No you wouldn't have, you would have gone and hoped for a crime scene." John states, crossing his arms but turning towards the DI. "Thank you Inspector, is there anything I can get you." John says politely.

Both men ignore the huffing genius, sulking and pouting like a three year old on the sofa.

"No no thank you, I best be going." Lestrade says and leaves with a hand wave.

"I swear.." John thinks out loud before turning to Sherlock. The detective had already grabbed the first file and is speeding through it, taking in all the information.

_"Sister-in-law."_ Sherlock's thoughts push. John just shakes his head as Sherlock grabs the next file.

* * *

><p>"You promise me that you'll stay here." John says, walking through the sitting room and into the kitchen with a disheveled apprehension, his body is tense with nervousness.<p>

_"I promise to stay under your ridiculous house arrest while you do the frivolous shopping."_ Sherlock's thought hold a twinge of irritation and annoyance.

"It's not frivolous, you need to eat, I need to eat. It's a necessity especially with your medication." John replies, his tone slightly annoyed. The doctor pokes his head out of the kitchen at the detective sitting on the sofa, staring idly at the ceiling.

John is still apprehensive to leave the genius on his own. He has already checked and rechecked the windows of both bedrooms to make sure they are locked. Not to mention that Baker Street has an additional bolt on it's door. John realises his paranoia but it's a small price to pay.

Mostly, John doesn't leave Sherlock in the flat alone, not because he's scared (maybe he's a little worried) but mostly because the detective is bored and John knows what that means, and he knows how the walls can't take it.

However, with cases for Sherlock that should keep him preoccupied (and the walls safe) for a least another couple of hours.

John wraps his scarf around his neck and pulls his coat tight. He stands in the middle of the sitting room briefly pondering his separation anxiety.

_"John, Just go." _Sherlock's thoughts whine. _"I'll be fine."_

"Okay Okay. I'll be listening to you, you know." John states, giving the detective one last look over and descends the stairs and out into the brisk London air.

* * *

><p>Tesco is practically empty when John enters the shop. He quickly gathers the necessities and pays, the trip only taking twenty minutes so far.<p>

He exits the shop and starts his walk back to the flat. He tucks his head against the cold as he listens in on Sherlock.

Of course the detective is keeping silent, more out of habit than anything. That doesn't stop the doctor from feeling the warm and comfort of lilacs and honey. John lets the familiar senses warm him.

_"Bored."_ John sighs and decides to send feelings into Sherlock.

_"Really John, you are practically brainwashing me with all your mushy love feelings."_

John chortles out loud in the middle of the pavement, John never thought he would live to see the day when Sherlock Holmes would use "mushy" and "love" in the same sentence.

John sends more feelings to entertain the genius, even if it makes him smarmy when John gets back to the flat.

_"Stop that, I will break the connection."_

_"Like you could."_ John snorts to himself and then wonders if Sherlock actually could achieve something so dramatic._ "Wouldn't put it past him."_

John hears the familiar purr of the engine before he sees the sedan.

_"Does Mycroft own a phone?"_ John thinks to himself.

John pushes Sherlock's thoughts on the back burner while he opens another connection. Unfortunately, due to his dealings with Mycroft, the doctor has been forced to recognise Anthea's senses, not that they are unpleasant, but John hates breaking rules, even if he tends to break them more and more around Sherlock. Call him a hypocrite, but John has saved Sherlock more than once because of bending his own rules a bit, plus the detective always says, _"There is always an exception to a rule."_

John latches on to the vanilla and oranges that radiate from the PA. More often than not, John needs reassurances when it comes to who he gets into cars with, especially now with Moriarty about.

The whir of a window breaks through John's thoughts. "Get in the car, Dr. Watson." Anthea's voice drifts into the doctor's ears. He debates, irrationally and with a rather goofy determination, about running, he doesn't particularly fancy a chat with the politician, but mostly because he just wanted to go back to the flat.

However, fate would prefer John to be intercepted by an eager politician and his blackberry wielding assistant.

With a heavy sigh, John gets into the black sedan clumsily, placing his shopping bag at his feet.

The car takes off, Anthea sitting opposite him, typing furiously on her mobile as usual.

John stares out the window, knowing better than to try and talk to the woman in front of him, he knows by now that if it isn't her blackberry or Mycroft it isn't important enough to acknowledge let alone converse with. Instead, he just smells lilac and taste honey, knowing full well the detective is silencing himself on purpose. He hopes this visit is a short one, he just can't wait to get home to a petulant genius.

To John, it seems that they are going in circles around London, but John assumes they are on a specific route that discourages followers of any kind.

The white noise of London finds John as they move farther and farther away from Baker Street, even thought the detective and the doctor have been practicing, the range isn't that much, but they have gotten it to two kilometers, an impressive leap from his previous 700 meters.

They sit in silence for twenty minutes, the buildings of London blurring past the windows.

_"Damnit Mycroft."_ John resist a chuckle at Sherlock's bitter tone. Instead, he pulls out his mobile, nonchalantly. Anthea can be just a perceptive as Mycroft sometimes.

_Stay put, you are healing. It won't take long. -JW_

_"It's terribly inconvenient." _John withstands the snort that threatens to escape his mouth.

_You're telling me, I have milk - JW_

The car slows and turns into a gate, the car travels up the paved driveway surrounded by rows of trees and hedges. In front of the car lies an unfamiliar house, it's large and pristine white. John considers it to be more than just a house, more like a manor based on the exquisiteness and sheer mass of the place.

John wonders idly where he could possibly be. The manor is vastly different from the house they were in at the party all those months ago. Is Mycroft pretentious enough to have two houses? One for public view and another private, a second completely untraceable home.

_"Yes, yes he is." _John thinks to shakes his head, he knew that dramatic and Holmes are synonymous but this is ridiculous.

_Mycroft doesn't have two houses does he? - JW_

_"What? Why would he take you there?"_ Apparently, Sherlock knows where the doctor is, well, at least someone does. The detective's voice sounds a bit panicky, but John chalks it up to intense sibling rivalry.

The car stops in front of the manor, beautiful white arches cover the main entrance. The structure decorated with articulate ornate columns and designs that add to the house.

John unbuckles and opens the car door stepping out, he leaves his shopping in the back seat, confident that this won't take long.

John walks up to the main door without being told to and the front door opens automatically. John enters, not even bothering to hide his blatant admiration of the Great Hall.

The hall is long and wide, several wooden doors lining the walls, derailing into various rooms and hallways. Chandeliers hang languid from the ceiling, basking the hall in a warm luminescence.

Yeah, this screams Mycroft all over.

* * *

><p>I'm just splitting this chapter up for a prolonged read.<p> 


	13. Are You Seriously Threatening Me?

I'm still gone til the fourth, but I decided to split this chapter up a bit.

Reviews are welcome,

Flattery will get you everywhere,

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>The manor is magnificent, John knew it as soon as he walks into the hallway, after staring for ages at the gaudy, yet gorgeous Great Hall, John looks up at the ceilings.<p>

Mycroft would have a mural painted on his ceiling like he lives in the bloody Sistine Chapel.

John stares up at the ceiling and admires the fancy mural, he hums a little bit at the theatrically but it's not entirely unpleasant.

John lowers his eyes and a man stands in front of him, his three piece suit put together wrinkle free and immaculate as ever. John's a little disappointed the man is sans his usual umbrella.

"Hello John. Welcome to my home..my ah..other home." Mycroft states, his tone flat and unwavering as usual. The politician signals for a servant to come over and manhandle John out of his jacket and push him along to follow Mycroft down the hall.

"Hello Mycroft." John finally manages, both of them already half way down the hall. John continues to shamelessly gape at the enormous hall and it's features.

Mycroft veers left towards an ornamented wooden door off of the grand hallway. The politician opens the door, both hands on each side, pushing the door open with a wooden groan and John really has to hold back the scoff at the flamboyancy. John follows Mycroft into the large room, very posh looking library. The room is lit by synthetic light, no windows grace the chamber along with no fireplace, much different from the other library of Mycroft's that John had been in. Floor to ceiling bookcases on every wall loom over the three pieces of furniture. A long, comfortable looking sofa sit in the middle of the room across from a coffee table and two lush chairs.

Mycroft wordlessly sits down in the chair closest to the doorway and John follows, the door closes with a snap behind the doctor.

"What am I doing here Mycroft?" John asks, his body tense as he sits down in the chair, his back straight, not relaxing in the chair. The meeting seems too formal and yet too personal at the same time. The hair on the back of John's neck stand up.

_"I don't want you there."_ John catalogs Sherlock's thoughts but focuses more on the situation at hand, like what does the elder Holmes want?

Mycroft seems to regard the doctor for a minute, looking him up and down, trying to analyse him. John shifts uncomfortably under Mycroft's gaze.

"How does it work?" The politician asks nonchalantly, his legs crossed and his body relaxed against the back of the chair. John, again finds himself feeling is semi-disappointed that Mycroft is sans umbrella, it would have added tremendously to the outrageous display of intimidation, at least he would be disappointed if he had the time. Presently, he is focused solely on keeping his face neutral and believable and as far from panic as possible.

"Excuse me?" John asks, forcing his body to relax and lean into the cushions of the chair. He keeps his hands on the arms, not gripping the fabric tightly but enough to anchor John to the chair.

"Don't be pedestrian." was Mycroft's simply answer.

_"John." _ John insides are panicking and without hesitation he finds the chocolate/caramel senses of Mycroft and explores the thoughts. The politician's mind is slow but his images present themselves too fast to read. Images would appear but then disappear just as fast, his mind in darkness until the next memory appears. This is why John doesn't like being in the man's mind, he can't slow it down enough to figure out what Mycroft is thinking and the general feeling of coldness turns against the doctor's usual mental comforts.

"I know what you are," Mycroft states confidently, his eyes scrutinizing John intensely.

They sit in silence for a minute, John trying to find anything he can about the politician's plan and Mycroft dissecting the doctor.

"And what am I?" John asks with a sigh, he knows that Mycroft knows, he puts the pieces of Mycroft's brain together even through the challenge. There is no use beating around the bush anymore.

"A telepath, a freak, a mutant." Mycroft spits the words, in an uncharacteristically nasty manner. John doesn't think that the words should hurt this much, especially coming from Mycroft, however, he is taken aback by the politician roughness and bluntness.

"How did you find out?" John asks, letting his hands rest on his thighs and he lets himself lean back fully, a pose of resignation. There is no need to hide anymore, Mycroft knows and the thought scares the doctor, the ex-soldier fears for his future, his future either non-existent or his future as the government's puppet. Mostly, he fears for the future without Sherlock.

John wonders idly if he has given up to soon, but then again he wants someone else to sit in a room with the British Government and not feel a loss of hope and secrecy.

"I hypothesised for a while, I knew something was different with you." Mycroft remarks, he leans forward a bit in his chair, placing his hands on his crossed knees in excitement. The politician's face shines a little brighter with his happiness. John hides his disgust at the site with a scoff and an eye roll. He didn't really hide it all that well.

"To your credit, you hid it very well and I admire your skill," Mycroft adds, "However, there where key points that gave you away in the end." Mycroft's smile is devilish and cold, not anything like his younger brother, in fact, in this moment, John sees nothing of Sherlock in the politician and John feels a giant weight of relief.

"And those are?" John doesn't even attempt to keep the snappiness out of his tone, in fact he adds venom to his voice to convey his displeasure.

"Well for starters, every time we had a chat, I could feel you. Kind of like I can feel you know. So stop it." John immediately breaks the connection, his suddenness scaring him a little, his suddenness to obey Mycroft, the thought sickens him. The politician smiles, like he just realised how easily John had obeyed. "It only happened around you, it was my first clue."

"My second clue was how fascinated my little brother was with you." Mycroft leans back conversely, "My brother doesn't waste his time on dull people, John."

"You are actually wrong, he didn't know right away." John huffs, wishing that Mycroft would get on with the death or the torture, whatever the British Government intends to do with the doctor. There is no way the government would allow a mind reader to roam the streets.

"That may be true, but when he did find out, he wanted you to stay because you had a purpose now. He could use you." Mycroft's voice is cruel and meant to hurt.

"You're wrong." John spits. His emotions playing with his mind. He has seen how much the detective loves him, he feels the love through their connection. The politician is lying.

"Am I?" The politician stares at John, his eyes scanning the doctor, cataloging the reaction and the body pose, dissecting the soldier's thoughts. John resist the urge to squirm under his eyes.

"The third, would be obviously when my little brother was shot." Mycroft says after a few minutes of silently inventorying the doctor. "You knew he had gone into cardiac arrest before the paramedics did. You were listening weren't you, you listened as his brain stopped." Mycroft had uncrossed his legs and leaned forward by this point, his elbows resting on his knees, his whole body intrigued.

John doesn't answer, he looks away from the elder Holmes, desperately trying not to think of the moment when Sherlock Holmes had died mid-thought.

_"John. GET OUT OF THERE NOW!"_ Sherlock interrupts his thoughts and John tries to keep his face neutral, but a small wince crosses the doctor's features at the detective's screaming thought.

Of course this doesn't go unnoticed by Mycroft.

"You are listening to him right now, aren't you?" Mycroft asks excitedly, he leans forward still, his face remaining neutral but his eyes glistening with curiosity. John remains silent, his eyes avoiding contact. The doctor knows he is in trouble.

"How far is the range?" Mycroft asks delight dripping from his voice, John considers not answering, so far there has be no administration or punishment for not answering, so far there haven't been any threats. Yet, John knows that he probably won't leave this house, just a feeling the doctor has.

"Far, farther than normal with Sherlock." John sighs and it's true, the detective and the doctor's range has increased dramatically since the very first time at Regents Park. Each day, John could hear Sherlock farther and farther away. However, this distance is the longest it has been. At least Sherlock will be happy about something that happens today.

Suddenly, the white noise of London dissipates and John has to force himself to not show any indication of a change, Mycroft doesn't know the aspects of his gift, he doesn't know how important and how powerful Sherlock is involved in his gift, and there is no reason for the elder Holmes to know. No reason for Sherlock to get dragged into whatever John has been dragged into.

_"John."_

The doctor sighs heavily, his eyes darting around the room lazily.

Mycroft freezes and tenses, his eyes scanning the doctor's body, looking for something.

Before John can even react, Mycroft is up and out the library door. The locks click and John is left alone, the soldier is immediately up, his insides full of panic but his exterior calm and collected.

"Hey. MYCROFT! You can't just leave me here." John bellows, reaching the door and slamming his fists into the locked wood. He latches onto Mycroft's connection bitterly and sends coldness, sadness, grief and despair into the politician's mind. He sees the thoughts Mycroft has when each emotion comes up. John watches as Mycroft stumbles his way in the Great Hall, his emotions threatening to make his knees buckle.

John laughs coldly at his kidnappers pain. John gasps. He is enjoying this, he is enjoying causing the synthetic emotions and the pain into Mycroft's mind.

The doctor drops the connection immediately, one of his hands flying to his mouth. He berates himself on his loss of self-control. The doctor grows furious, furious at the situation, furious that he enjoyed hurting a person, granted it is Mycroft and he barely qualifies but the sentiment remains.

John doesn't connect with Mycroft again, he prefers to stay in the dark, not after how close he came to losing it. The ex-soldier, instead takes out his frustration and fury on the door and in return his knuckles and fists bruise heavily and start seeping blood, but the doctor doesn't stop, he takes his rule breaking, self-depreciating self out on the door.

_"John."_ He knows Sherlock is close, based on the fact that the white noise disappeared and Mycroft's general rushed manner as he abruptly left, but really what chance does the detective have against the British Government. John sighs in resignation. His hands beginning to hurt, and his voice sore from his screaming demands. He gives up pounding on the door and instead moves to the sofa.

Just as he is about to pull out his mobile, he hears a commotion in the hallway, he hears Mycroft yelling and people's footsteps screeching against the tile.

John stands up instantly and walks around to the backside of the couch, facing the door, red droplets of blood stain the door from where John pounded against it.

The voices get louder and the footsteps grow in number. John braces himself, the army training ready for whatever comes in through the door.

The door's burst open, in an explosion of noise, wooden bits flying all over the room, John brings his hands up to protect his face from the debris, but seconds later, his fists are at his side, clenched and ready to ambush the intruder.

A flash of dark curls stops the doctor short.

_"John."_ Sherlock's face softens, all expression of fury and determination gone. John almost melts into the expression.

Sherlock crosses the room in seconds, wrapping an arm around John's waist, but placing his body slightly in front of John to protect him. John doesn't move, he revels in his rescuer.

Not seconds later, Mycroft enters the room, stepping over the cleaved door and standing firmly in the library, followed by five men with guns, fanning out behind him, all barrels pointed at John. Sherlock tries to put his body completely in front of John but the doctor pushes him aside and brings his entire height straight and stands directly beside the detective, mostly because Sherlock's grip prevented John from shielded the younger man.

The detective lets out a inhumane snarl. "Mycroft." His arm wrapped protectively around John. "What are you doing?"

John speculates how far Mycroft will take this. Are they intending to kill the doctor? Would they risk getting Sherlock hurt? What could Mycroft want with John? Would Sherlock get punished for being here, or worse hurt?

John makes a promise to himself in that moment, anything to protect Sherlock.

The Holmes brother continue on with their very heated bickering, presumably over the value of the doctor's life. John is preoccupied with his task at hand to listen to their conversation.

John should feel fear, he should be afraid of the men pointing guns at them. Instead, he feels a strange form of calm, instead he realises the urgency of the situation.

_"John."_ With one last whiff of lilac and honey and a calm and loving feeling sent to Sherlock, in which the detective sends a sideways glance to the doctor, John breaks the connection with Sherlock and focuses onto the men with guns.

He opens the connections one at a time while the Holmes brothers argue. John makes a decision, the choice tears at his morality and his intelligence. John wonders how many armed people are currently in the manor, more than what Mycroft had brought, clearly if he thinks John is dangerous there would be more gunmen, unless this is all he has.

John takes a chance and one by one he sends confusion and calming thoughts into the gunmen. Each of the armed men faces twist in perplexity and their stances shift with uncertainty. John watches the expressions change while Mycroft's expression just get angrier at Sherlock's words, completely unaware of the confused army behind him. John knows the detective sees the guards but he eggs Mycroft on for a distraction.

John then connects all five men at once, something he's never done before and will probably reap the consequences later, but he does it anyway and ends up calming the men all at once and with such power that the men all fall asleep, the calm so overbearing, one gun after another dropping to the ground as their owners crumple into heaps, two of the men snoring heavily.

As Mycroft's men fall to the floor, John's eyes roll into the back of his head as his legs give out and he plummets towards the floor. He stays conscious and he can feel Sherlock's grip tighten, keeping John standing, but barely.

_"John."_ John face twitches and winces slightly at Sherlock's thought pushes through in pain. John closes his eyes and leans heavily onto the detective, he fights against nausea and the headache forming. He knows instantly that he took on too much. The doctor thinks it's worth when he opens his eyes and sees Mycroft.

Mycroft's face is in utter shock, he glances over his shoulder, seeing the sleeping men on the ground behind him. The elder Holmes is speechless. John smiles sloppily through the pain in his head and the weakness in his knees. He closes his eyes again and grips Sherlock's shirt as he swoons.

"John. John. Can you hear me?" Sherlock's worried voice rings through John's thoughts, the detective wraps anther arm around the falling doctor, embracing John completely, holding his full weight.

"Sofa." John whispers out and feels himself moving.

"Jesus." John hears the politician exclaim as the genius guides John to the sofa.

"John. You are bleeding." Sherlock remarks, gently placing John on the plush cushions, John chuckles and wipes at his nose. John feels the detective leaving his side.

"S'not a bad one." John states, closing his eyes and tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose. John feels a cool hand against his forehead and cloth underneath his nose. The bond is instantaneous. John indulges in the genius's senses. The detective is unusually quiet for a tactile contact. John guess that Sherlock's anger with Mycroft is the cause of the younger man's taciturnity.

John opens his eyes at the silence and sees a concern detective staring back at him._ "Ah."_ John thinks, Sherlock is silent because he doesn't want to hurt John further and most of all, he doesn't want the doctor to know of his consternation and emotional upheaval. _"Too bad I can see right through him."_ John smiles and brings a shaky hand to cup the detective's cheek, John sends feelings of love and tranquility, along with feelings of reassurances and trust, Sherlock closes his eyes, smiling at the positive emotions, the genius leans into John's touch and hums slightly at their intimate embrace.

"Ah." Mycroft states and John is shaken out of his reverie, he mistakenly thought that Sherlock and himself where the only ones in the room, only ones in the world. John immediately breaks all connections with Sherlock, tactile and mental, hoping that he can still get the detective out unharmed. All though, Mycroft's lack of goonies does put the politician at a disadvantage.

However, John has shown the older man the potential of his gifts and John doubts very much that Mycroft will be able to let the telepath leave without hesitation.

"Mycroft this is your fault." Sherlock shouts, his tone dripping venom. John sits up taller on the sofa, his back tense and straight. His nose is still bleeding but the flow is slowly stopping, meanwhile the headache has subsided quickly and the nausea is almost gone.

"Quite the contrary. I'm sure that Dr. Watson is too blame for my men and everything that follows." Mycroft snaps back, his back against a bookcase, standing in front of the two men, Sherlock kneeling beside John and the doctor ready for a fight, a run, or an ambush.

"Everything that follows? What is that suppose to mean? I'm taking John to the back to the flat." Sherlock stands, his fists clenching in anger.

"Be reasonable, brother, you can't expect me to let this freak walk freely." Sherlock's head snaps up and looks directly at Mycroft. His eyes are red with anger and John recognises Sherlock's stance.

World War Three is not worth it over John Watson, so the doctor latches and instantly sends relaxing emotions into Sherlock, not caring when the detective's glare turns towards John and bares into his soul. John involuntarily shudders under the scrutiny but he continues to calm the detective down. John grabs the genius's hand reflectively, enhancing the feelings vibrancy and until Sherlock has to sit down next to John, due to the intensity of the feelings.

John knows he is bending the rules, even though he will argue with himself later on that he is saving billions of lives by derailing this fight. Despite all of it, Sherlock's face softens and he leans against John on the sofa. The doctor notices the detective's droopy eyelids and John stops pushing and lets the feelings linger, he doesn't want Sherlock sleeping, so he smiles at the genius and in return, Sherlock gives a tired sloppy smile back, through his less than intimidating glare of course.

"I hate you." Sherlock states out loud, slightly unusual for the detective to say something out loud but John accepts the statement as an endearment nonetheless.

"I will not let you fight with your brother over silly things." John says simply, throwing an arm around Sherlock's shoulder, cradling the man closer.

"Ah." Mycroft says clearing his throat, once again making his appearance known, because John seems to keep forgetting being wrapped up in the Sherlock-John bubble. John raises his head and meets the politician's eyes. He doesn't dare open the link, instead he tries to read his expressionless face with no avail.

"What do you want with me? Kill me?" John asks, exhaustion creepy on him, his tired of beating around the bush, he's tired of this room and his tired of not knowing his own fate in the hands of Mycroft Holmes.

"No." was Mycrofts simplistic answer. "You are too valuable an asset to exterminate."

Exterminate, was John a bug or something. John sighs nevertheless, knowing that this was coming, an endless service of indentured service with the British Government.

_"John. Don't."_ John notices the extremely calm, almost to a point of sleep, detective struggling with the idea of talking about John's death so freely.

"If I agree to whatever ridiculous thing you have planned, will you let Sherlock return to the flat unscathed and able to continue his life?" John asks simply, looking at Mycroft, trying to keep disgust and ridicule out of his face while asking this favor.

Sherlock struggles and writhes with these words.

_"No John. I'm not leaving without you."_ Sherlock pushes away from the doctor to face the man. In this unguarded moment John sees the love and the determination, hell even the stubbornness. He sees it all and it makes John's heart grow strong.

John cups the detective's cheek once again and brings up memories of their times together, the first time they said 'I love you's, their laughs, their first criminal chases. John leans in and kisses Sherlock, their lips meet in a longing and passionate frenzy.

John calms the detective and Sherlock goes limp in his arms, his face slack in his sleep. John lays the detective down gently and brushes the hair out of his face.

He feels disappointment that Sherlock won't be able to test this new part, the ability to cause anyone to sleep. John could have gained amusement out of this, he wouldn't abuse the gift at all, no never.

"You would sacrifice everything for my brother?" Mycroft asks, his tone full of curiosity. He propels himself off of the bookcase with grace and walks over to the two men.

"Of course. Wouldn't you?" John says without looking up, his thoughts focused on the colors in Sherlock's brain.

The three sit in silence, John lost in Sherlock's dreams, part of his keeping the red away like always and the other part wishing Mycroft would get on with it all.

The three engross themselves in the silence of the room for minutes.

"He's too stubborn." Mycroft sighs finally, John's body is so tense from anticipation that he thought he is going to burst.

"What?" John's shocked at the off handed statement, he is confused at the direction Mycroft is steering the conversation.

"He would never stop no matter what." John turns his head to stare at the older man, who has moved to the chair he had previously occupied. John just stares in flummox. "I'm afraid Dr. Watson, you are not worth the endless years of strife and nuisances my brother would provide if I took you away." Mycroft sighs like he just admitted a great defeat.

"Wait. What?" John exasperates. "So after all of this, you are going to let me go." John's whole body is turned toward the politician, one hand still intertwined into the detective's, keeping the tactile contact alive and reassuring.

"I'm going to let you both go." Mycroft clarifies, whipping his mobile out of his pocket and typing a message away furiously. John just stares at the elder Holmes in bewilderment.

The decision seems a bit too easy.

"What's the catch?" John asks, his eyes roaming the politician suspiciously.

"I don't think Sherlock gives you as much credit as he should. Your deductions skills are coming along." was Mycroft's dubious answer. John eyes narrow. "I would simply like to know about your..mutation."

John chuckles sourly, he looks down at the still sleeping detective and weighs his options.

"Fine." There is never any doubt, John would tell Mycroft if that meant Sherlock would be safe, although, John doesn't think that Mycroft would have really hurt his brother, the man's a bastard but he's not evil enough hurt his own family.

Mycroft claps his hands together and stands up. "Good."

Two men enter the room just then, John looks from the men to Sherlock to Mycroft, his eyes wide with panic and his stance ready for fight, although as John stands up abruptly, he can feel the exhaustion taking it's hold, if John has to make another mental connection and knock out the guards, he would be in worst condition than he already is.

"John, relax, they are here to take Sherlock to the car." Mycroft states, putting his hands up in a surrender pose.

John relaxes, but only a little. "I could wake him up."

"Can you?" Mycroft's fascination is back, he turns his full body towards John, who despite it all, looks warily down at Sherlock, unsure of how safe it would actually be.

"No worries, John. Let him rest, and same for yourself. Judging by the bloody nose and your general weakness, you are under-practiced."

"The mind isn't meant for other people to be meddling in it." John states, letting his voice sound as tired as it is.

"Yet, you should no hesitation with knocking out five of my men." Mycroft says conversationally, without accusation or bitterness.

"They had guns pointed at me, at Sherlock. I didn't have a choice." John remarks firmly as he watches the two men scoop the lanky form up and carry the man out of the library. The sleeping agents bodies have been removed. He follows the men out and knows that Mycroft is following him. "One day I will tell you about my rules, but not today." The doctor adds, mostly to just keep Mycroft's conversation at bay, he doesn't want to be in the manor anymore and he doesn't want a prolonged conversation to become obliged to.

The two men carry Sherlock through the front door and out of the house. Somewhere, a servant comes by and thrust John's coat at him, John doesn't stop his walking and just grabs his coat and scarf and follow Sherlock out of the house.

"John, I feel as thought this conversation is a must." Mycroft starts, his stand slightly uncomfortable and his eyes darting, the expression is new and surprising to John continues his fast paced walking but stares at the politician in anticipation.

"If you hurt my brother in any-" Mycroft starts, striding in front of John stopping the man in his tracks in a demand for attention.

"Mycroft, are you seriously threatening me?" John ask incredulously, not sure if he wants to hit the man or walk away laughing at his ignorance. "I just spent the last hour and a half of my life in chaos. You kidnapped me, kept me here against my will, found out my biggest secret, threatened Sherlock and I at gunpoint, witnessed how powerful my gift can be, witnessed how much I was and will always be willing to sacrifice for your brother. I think it's safe to bet that we will be together for awhile." John says, staring fondly at Sherlock being carried into the car. "Besides I love him."

Mycroft looks at the doctor as if seeing him in a new light. John just walks towards the black sedan with ease, letting the politician beside him focus on the thoughts of a pedestrian.

"Very well," Mycroft admits as John and the older man walk up to the car. The door open, ready for John to climb in next to the sleeping detective. "Oh and John, I hope we aren't parting on bad terms."

"Mycroft, I should hate you, I really have every right to. But since living with your brother, my usual responses are a bit peculiar, so yes, against everything in my being that says you are dangerous and should never be forgiven, I find that my head feeling that we are okay." John replies hastily, anxious to return to the flat. Besides, Mycroft doesn't need to know that even though they are on generous good terms, John is scared shitless of the man, yes best Mycroft not know that.

Right now, they just escaped the most dangerous man on the planet and they will both live to tell about it, although they best not.

Who would believe the story anyway?

* * *

><p>Coming up next, John meets Moriarty.<p>

Dun Dun Dun

I like reviews and cookies,


	14. Dramatic Bastard

Ahh, it's been too long, I'm sorry, but vacation was amazing.

I spent days on the cruise ship writing and continuing my stories. I hope everyone is ready.

I'm rearing to go though.

Thank you thank you thank you all for the reviews, they mean sooooo much to me, keep up the good work.

Without further ado, I know how long you've waited for it.

BTW no Moriarty in this chapter yet, he's coming though.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>In the car, with Sherlock's unconscious body laying across the backseat, the detective's head in the doctor's lap, John strokes the curly dark hair affectionately while he stares out the window. The ex-soldier is far more tense this car ride back to London, compared to the first one of the day.<p>

Any minute, he anticipates the sedan turning around and heading back to the manor, right back into Mycroft's dark and cold clutches. He fears the politician might have changed his mind, deciding to trap John regardless of his feelings for Sherlock, or the deal they made. John shudders at the powerful reach of the politician and sighs with uneasiness.

John's head pounds with a vengeance, and his nose still bleeds slowly and absentmindedly. He knows he pushed his gift too far today. He looks down at the uncharacteristically still genius and can't help but feel that it was worth it. Forcing his gift past, what he thought were concrete limits and reaching new heights, the intense calming of Mycroft's guards, stopping, what John believes would have been, world war three by calming the detective to sleep. It was all worth it, plus the added bonus of Mycroft expressions and thoughts going into a shocked speechlessness, the immaculate politician completely unhinged, worth it, even if it was for a minute. John knows he is lucky, lucky to have gotten out of there, lucky to still be conscious after such a powerful display of his gift. John realises that he could possibly be working at a lower mental capacity the new developments.

Despite the forcefulness of his headache, the realisations of how mentally unsound he could possibly be, and the consequences of his symptoms, John, as soon as he entered the car, connects tactically with Sherlock regardless, actively trying to monitoring his unconscious thoughts. John worries slightly about the after affects of putting someone to sleep, he didn't even know he could do it until today.

John's hand is intertwined with the detective's, keeping all connections open, albeit very timidly, he isn't trying to be brazen with his mental destruction.

In the last ten minutes, Sherlock's thoughts have strayed away from their usual colors when he sleeps and have gone completely blank, like a giant black canvas conveying nothing.

Sherlock Holmes's mind is devoid of anything thought.

The doctor silently sits in the back of the sedan, is face and body neutral, but his mind is pulsating with pain and worry. The genius has fallen into a deep slumber, John is in distress. He fears that his thoughts made the younger man to tranquil, maybe even into a coma.

John shakes the detective calmly at first, calling Sherlock's name softly in the genius's ear. Sherlock's face remains lax and blank. John shakes the man again, this time vigorously, shouting his name, three decibels away from unbearably loud yelling. Still, the detective remains limp and motionlessness.

After a few minutes, John stops trying to rouse the inactive man, the doctor's head erupting and his nose still leaking. He tries to find the warm lilac and honey within in Sherlock's blank mind. Nothing but dark answers John's apprehensive probes on Sherlock's surface.

In the next few minutes, John does two different things, the only things he can think of, and both are not conducive to his mental health.

1. John, for many reasons, attempts to pull Sherlock out of his light coma.

The genius's lack of thoughts make John afraid for one reason. John didn't even know he could do this with his gift until Mycroft decided to point guns in Sherlock's general direction. What if John can't get the younger man out of this type of coma? What if John did something that even he can't reverse?

Also, a much less, and selfish reason, is John doesn't know how he would get Sherlock into the flat by himself, midday, in the middle of a busy Baker Street. The man may be skinny and lean, but his weight is deceiving. John has troubles getting Sherlock up the stairs on a normal day, when the detective comes back from a case, more often than not, unnecessarily injured and it's up to John to get the detective up the stairs and into bed. John curses and chastising the young man all the way to their bedroom on these days.

Even then though, Sherlock is always conscious enough to help in these cases, at least a little bit, the doctor has never carried the man by himself.

Despite the fact that John is barely working at 50% mentally and his is physically exhausted as well, the telepath eventually decides to bring Sherlock out of his coma, his worries and reason outweighing the doctor's own health...typical.

John closes his eyes and places both of his hands on Sherlock's face, one palm laying over the detective's forehead and the other cupping the lean face. The doctor quickly delves into the detective's mind, bypassing the darkness and the memories, John floats into a space of Sherlock's fascinating brain designated for new experiments to try. The doctor doesn't stay long in this unfamiliar part, the experiments that John briefly sees are technical and even a bit scary.

The ex-soldier can feel the mental strain, he is vaguely aware that his nose is steadily picking up in blood flow. His head throbs loudly and diligently, getting worse the longer that John remains connected so tenaciously.

John catalogs the lack of honey and lilac as he digs deeper and deeper. Maybe, the person has to conscious in order to emit the senses that offer comfort to the doctor. The lack of the familiar senses just put John on edge and make him want to unearth the detective faster.

Finally, John finds Sherlock in his mind palace, a portion of the genius's mind, so far down in his mental standings. The doctor sees the detective perched on his literal mental throne, eyes closed and his pose familiar.

"Dramatic Bastard." John says in Sherlock's brain, causing the detective to open his eyes and stare at John's mental appearance. Sherlock smiles, a large goofy grin, his teeth glistening in the mind palace.

John beckons Sherlock, pulling the detective out of his reverie and the genius obediently follows.

A sudden, sharp and unbearable pain erupts in John's forehead. The doctor is pulled out of Sherlock's mind so fast, that the car around him is spinning unnaturally. The telepath's hands are immediately around his temples, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth yelling out in the pain. The next moment, John is unceremoniously on the floor of the large backseat, his muscles writhing and his body trembling with the agony.

John notices nothing, his mind to focused on pain as he tries to make his thoughts blank and yielding, unsuccessfully. His thoughts scream at him. First; _What is happening? What's going on? _Then,_ Did it work? Is Sherlock out?_

His thoughts are answered by his vague awareness of Sherlock's groggy and slightly slurred, yet encompassing loud screams that echo in the car.

2. Then John does the second thing that is no where near healthy in his current state, the doctor blacks out. John opens his eyes abruptly just as they roll back and John succumbs to blackness, the dark consuming him. A pair of confused and sleepy gray eyes are the last thing the doctor sees, the eyes sport concern and sadness, very evident in the rarely unmasked face.

* * *

><p>One moment, John is in darkness, his thoughts are slurred and distant, cold even. John doesn't like this place, it's unforgiving and unwelcoming. John panics slightly at the lack of happiness. He fights to get somewhere safe, somewhere he knows is warm.<p>

In the next moment, John opens his eyes. The doctor wakes in silence, his body laying flat, his back to the mattress below him.

_"At least the cold is gone." _John thinks to himself. Even through the darkness, John doesn't feel cold, nor does he really feel warm, but neutral is a good starting place.

John tries to place his thoughts, his memories. What happened? Where is he? The room is dark, yes but it smells familiar. The dark curtains are drawn, severing any connections with the moonlight or the nightlife of London, leaving the doctor in a stifling darkness.

John shifts in his bed with a slight twinge of fear, he feels the mattress dip next to him, the occupant adjacent shifting also. John stills, his reflexes singing with warning. The ex-soldier snaps his head to the side, causing his head to throb, John ignores it and tries to find the unknown culprit in the bed with him.

He sees the dark curls first and John instantly relaxes, feeling a bit ashamed and silly for reacting so strongly.

John softens, his face unwinds and his body loosens. He smiles at the detective next to him, the icy gray eyes unwavering with concern and relief, and the lean face smiling tenderly.

Looking at Sherlock causes John's memories to come back in a flash, everything from getting kidnapped originally to escaping Mycroft and the car ride.

_"Oh. The car ride."_ John remembers passing out. His memories rapidly play in his mind and his face must show it because Sherlock's weak smile turns into a frown and his eyes dart around the room in anxiety.

John considers the detective, the young man's body is curled on his side, a huge gap between the two of them. He arms are against his chest, shaking very faintly, with anger...concern maybe...and a hint of longing, the untrained eye wouldn't catch it.

The doctor stares at the genius with confusion. He swiftly probes Sherlock's mind, curious and worry in the forefront of his mind to the strange distant feel of the man in front of him.

John freaks out when he doesn't sense the lilac and honey duo at all, in the air before he makes the mental connection or even after when he is inside Sherlock's very blank mind. Did he finally lose his gift? Did he finally push himself to far?

_"I wasn't meant to pry into people's minds, I wasn't meant to use it for harm. I've lost it now." _John's thoughts are sad, depressing, angry and fearful._  
><em>

John clenches his fist at his sides, nails digging into palms as the anxiety and fear course through him, causing his heart to beat faster and his breathing to shallow.

_"Wait a minute."_

John realises something suddenly, he observes the lack of physical touch, the shaking form of Sherlock's fist out of longing, as if the detective is forcing his body not to touch the doctor.

John is reveling in confusion. The pair of them gravitate towards each other all the time even before they became lovers, and most of the time it is subconsciously. Now, the genius is deliberately forcing himself not to touch the detective.

Of course, John automatically thinks the worse. The detective is angry, probably for putting him to sleep during a perfectly good argument. Or Sherlock could be sad, sad at the betrayal, maybe even sad that John made a deal, a forced deal mind him, a deal with Mycroft.

_"Sherlock doesn't even know about that...yet."_ John reminds himself. John takes a second to adds this to his list of things to freak out about. He is right, Sherlock doesn't know that John practically agreed to let Mycroft find out everything about the telepath in exchange for their freedom. John can't wait for that conversation.

The lack of intimate touch is still unsatisfactory and undiscovered.

John eyes find Sherlock's again. Gray eyes stare back at him and John jumps a little at the vulnerability radiating from the pupils with trepidation.

John scoots closer to the genius, his own eyes worried at the distress. Sherlock's eyes widen slightly and his attempts to move back at John's forward march. John stills, having moved maybe an inch and can't help but keep the hurt from his own face.

The detective's fist clench against his own chest, his knuckles white and flexing uncontrollably. John regards the younger man's face, it's soft and tender, sadness, apprehension and longing are painted with obvious care.

"Ah." John's voice is hoarse and he suddenly wonders how long he had been unconscious. John sighs, Sherlock has ceased contact because he is afraid, afraid to hurt John.

The doctor smiles weakly and rolls on his side, his arm abruptly cups the detective's cheek, moving tenderly, yet swiftly, allowing no time for Sherlock to escape the grip. Sherlock instinctively closes his eyes and leans into the touch, his whole body relaxing and his fists loosening with pacifistic ease.

John feels the warmth that he is craving, but the lilac and honey are distant, subtle. Sherlock's vibrancy is missing, missing or purposefully held back. The doctor tries to dig deep, looking for happy memories to soothe the detective and honestly, himself. The doctor knows Sherlock is holding his thoughts back, his mind is blank, not darkness like when he was in a coma but just blank, as if Sherlock has a fortified his memories and caused them to be impenetrably silent.

"I'm fine." John says quietly, and for the most part, the doctor is fine. A tiny throb of a headache that is going away swiftly is the only evidence of an episode. Sherlock just nods tenuously into John's hand, as if he is unsure of the truthfulness of John's statement.

The detective, with his eyes still closed, grabs John's wrist rapidly, yet gently, anchoring the doctor to him, as if the lack of contact is too much for the young man.

The doctor knows how emotionally vulnerable Sherlock gets, the self-proclaimed sociopath is just uniquely good at suppressing all emotions in public. Once the two of them are alone, his mask comes down, not alarmingly but enough that John knows how false the 'sociopath' thing is.

It's a rare form to see the genius so emotionally naked. It still catches John off guard, that Sherlock can feel so deeply, and even still, feel so deeply for someone like John.

The doctor closes the much too big gap between them. Soon, their bodies are pushed together, John's knees curled into Sherlock's thigh. John grabs Sherlock and pulls him closer so the man's head is laying on John's good shoulder. Sherlock lets go of John's wrist and flings his arm around the doctor's waist, completing the embrace. Sherlock yanks John even closer, nuzzling his head into John shoulder.

"Everything is fine. Mycroft won't hurt us." John says soothingly, trying to break through Sherlock's silence, both mentally and physically. Sherlock's mind still stays silent.

"I know." Sherlock's voice is a little hoarse, the detective hasn't spoken in hours, his voice is small yet stubborn.

"Do you now?" John can't help but raise a brow at the man.

"The likelihood that Mycroft would have...kept you from me is very low, statistically speaking." Sherlock spews out rapidly yet with perfect articulation.

_"ah, there is the Sherlock we all know and love."_ John smiles into Sherlock's hair.

"But that's not what has got you scared." It's a statement and Sherlock knows it.

"No." Sherlock answers simply and sighs. John grips the detective's chin and moves it up to look into Sherlock's eyes.

"What?" John asks, his eyes conveying understanding and reassurance.

Sherlock just stares into John for minutes before speaking. "They seem to be getting worse." is all Sherlock says, before gently removing his chin out of John's grip and lowering it, resting his head back onto John's shoulder.

John just hums in agreement. It's true, the attacks are getting worse. They are getting bloodier and the headaches seem to hurt more and come harder each time, even harder than we he used to be hospitalized for the blackouts. In contrast, however, he knows more about his gift now and knows what he is capable of, not to mention that he doesn't even bother with the hospitals anymore. He's more comfortable and confident with his gift now, it's different.

"Yes. But it's more complex now." John states, conflicted about how to explain the difference. "You've helped me learn more about my gift, more about myself than I ever thought possible. It's worth the risk."

"But at what consequences?" Sherlock's voice twitches with a hint of anger, his shoulders tensing slightly.

John wraps his arm around the detective, speechless, trying to soothe the tension out of the younger man.

"I didn't know what happened. Once moment I was at Mycrofts, furious with him and the next I see you on the floor, bleeding and shaking," Sherlock's voice is small and full of raw emotion, John resists the temptation of probing his mind again, to see the image of himself in such a state.

"I sorry." John says, nuzzling his head into Sherlock's dark hair. He didn't intend for the consequences of his blatant disrespect for his health to traumatize the detective but it did and that is now John's fault. "I was worried that you were in a coma." John offers, his voice weak with shame.

"You knew that you weren't at best condition." Sherlock says. He is definitely angry now. "You knew and you still did it."

"I'm sorry." John remarks again. "It was the only thing I could think of."

Sherlock huffs with indignation and John rolls his eyes.

"I won't do it again." John adds.

"Yes you will." Sherlock states, "If the situation comes up between my health and your own you will always chose me over you. Just like you did with the guards."

It's true, John would do anything to protect Sherlock, anything.

"I don't like feeling like that John, helpless." Sherlock adds, tilting his chin up, looking into John's eyes. "That's why I think we should stop experimenting and reading thoughts."

John reels from the detective statements. The doctor doesn't know what is more surprising the fact that Sherlock is turning down dozens of potential experiments or the fact that Sherlock cares so deeply about John's well-being that he is willing to throw out the numerous future experiments.

"Wait. What?" John exasperates, this is not anything what he wanted.

"It's too dangerous." Sherlock states simply, his gray eyes piercing with uncompromising stiffness.

"They help." John says defiantly, his own voice now stubborn. "I wouldn't have been able to hear you at Mycroft's without them. I wouldn't be this far, this skilled, if we hadn't experimented." John cries.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock says simply.

"Irrelevant? I wouldn't have been able to save us if we didn't practice, we'd be doing more harm by not continuing." John shouts desperately. His own mind panicking at Sherlock's decision.

John sighs at the sudden realisation of irony back when Sherlock found out. John had stated that there would no experiments and now John is fighting to keep them.

"No. It's not safe anymore. I'm not risking you getting hurt because of the experiments and what they lead to in practical situations." Sherlock remarks.

"Practical situations. You mean reality?" John questions incredulously, "We wouldn't have gotten away from Mycroft, or the man who broke into the flat, we would have been dead without the experiments," John huffs, now he is growing angry.v"Besides, it's my mental health, you can't make this decision for me."

_"Who are you kidding Watson? Since when does Sherlock, or hell, both the Holmes brothers every let you make your own decisions."_ John thinks with annoyance.

"Regardless, I'm not doing them anymore, they are not safe for you." Sherlock adds, his tone conversational, like he has already won, and he has, John knows it, he can see it in the detective's pleading eyes. John melts into the eyes.

"Fine." John spits, knowing that he lost, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. He pushes himself out of the embrace gently, with just enough force to show his disgruntlement. He rolls onto his side away from the detective.

Sherlock sighs but lets go.

Minutes later, a door below slams shuts loudly.

"Mycroft's men are gone." Sherlock remarks with obvious uneasiness, apprehensive of the tension in the room.

"I know." John says, he had been monitoring them all along. The doctor sighs with resignation, he scoots closer to the detective, letting his anger subside slightly. It's not worth the fight, John knows the reason why Sherlock is being stubborn and he respects the detective's reasons. Besides, he also knows how bored Sherlock can get, it won't be long before the detective comes begging for an experiment or at least until John dangles an entertaining distraction.

John's not one for manipulation but the doctor might have the right ammunition to push Sherlock in his favor. The secret locations of the cameras in the flat that Mycroft's men have just finished planting.


	15. The Smell of Blood

Oh my gosh, I heart you all, almost 80 reviews no way.

I love everybody.

And now what you've been waiting for, John meets Moriarty. Dun Dun Dun

Review and tell me if you like it.

Peace&Love.

* * *

><p>John curses Mycroft silently and bitterly as he enters the flat of 221B Baker street. His hands are full of heavy plastic shopping bags and his whole form is soaking wet from the light December snow, the flakes melting upon John's jacket. The politician not only kidnapped him but he didn't return his groceries, so John had to go out in the snow to shop, for the second time that week.<p>

John huffs up the stairs, his mind automatically trying to find Sherlock but the detective is still fortifying his thoughts, for the second day in a row.

John doesn't even get subconscious thoughts anymore. The doctor wonders how much mental power the detective is using to keep John from 'getting hurt'.

John sighs in resignation as he climbs the seventeen steps. He freezes at the landing, the door to the sitting room is open, as is normal. What isn't normal is the mess practically oozing from inside the doorway. John almost drops the shopping in shock. He grips the bags tighter and braves the new mess.

John scans the room, every inch is covered with papers and various instruments. The cushions of the sofa are overturned and laying scattered around the room. The telebox is crooked, sitting precariously on the side mantle.

"What the hell?" John mutters to himself. He steps on and around the crinkling paper beneath his feet as he make his way towards the kitchen.

John finally makes it through the mess, grumbling and already strategising on how he is going to clean up the mess when he sees the detective in the kitchen.

John doesn't even freeze this time, he walks straight into the kitchen, setting the bags on the floor next to the fridge.

He stares up at the form of the detective. Sherlock had moved all of his equipment on the 'experiment' table to one side and is now standing haphazardly on top of it, his long fingers running along the ceiling tiles.

"What in bloody hell are you doing?" John practically screams at him.

_"Cameras."_ John keeps face neutral, the detective must be more focused on the task at hand then at his mental barriers. John takes the time to probe the detective, but with no luck, even the pairing of lilac and honey doesn't greet the doctor. John sighs.

"I'm looking for cameras." Sherlock answers distractedly.

"In the ceiling?" John asks, moving back to the shopping, putting them away, every once and a while seeing if the genius lets his barriers down through his distracted searching.

"Obviously." is Sherlock's answer. Just as John finishes putting away the shopping, Sherlock jumps down from the table and runs into the sitting room. John follows curiously, his arms crossed and his back leaning on the kitchen door frame.

Sherlock is laying on the floor, halfway underneath 'John's chair'.

"There are none under there." John says coolly and turns back into the kitchen. The doctor goes about making tea, turning the kettle on and organising his fixings.

He notices idly when Sherlock enters the kitchen mere seconds later.

"How many?" Sherlock asks, John notices the detective trying to keep the haste out of his voice.

John just shrugs noncommittally, his hands filling the mug with water and proceeding to make tea, ignoring the detective.

_"John."_ Sherlock's thoughts whine. John notices the manipulation, he knows that Sherlock has been depriving the doctor of his thoughts and this has put John slightly on edge. He is attempting to bring the doctor out and reveal the locations of all of the cameras.

John just laughs, "I thought you weren't talking to me." John states disinterestedly.

"I'm talking to you right now." Sherlock remarks. John rolls his eyes and huffs.

"You know what I mean." John clarifies. "Did you change your mind?" John asks, unable to get the hopefulness out of his voice.

"No." Sherlock declares. "I still think it's too dangerous." Sherlock crosses his arms across his torso as John turns around, the fresh cuppa in his cold hands.

"Well then I'm not telling you were the cameras are." John retaliates, sipping the tea, letting the warm liquid comfort his throat. The doctor stands straight in the kitchen stalemate.

Sherlock huffs, "That's not fair." The sulky detective pouts.

John just shrugs and continues to stare at the detective, wondering if the stubborn, petulant genius would falter, if he will give in.

"Since when do you want Mycroft to spy on us." Sherlock says smirking.

"I don't." John remarks simply. "But, I don't think you are being fair."

The younger man squints his eyes in concentration.

"I'm not saying we have to do anything extravagant, we just don't have to stop with the experiments." John states, letting his cards show. "And you bring down your walls, they are annoying." John adds.

"It's too dangerous." Sherlock repeats, his body tense, somehow both of them have been able to keep the argument out of the conversation.

"Worth the risk." John remarks, his shoulders shrugging with indifference.

_"No, it's not."_ John scoffs at the stubborn detective. He stares at the younger man, debating his next move.

The pair sit in silent contemplation.

John sighs. "I'll show you were all the cameras are and we can send them back to Mycroft for his birthday."

_"His birthday is in February."_

"You know what I mean," John says through his narrowed eyes.

The stare at each other for ages, Sherlock in thought and John just waiting. After minutes, John picks up his now empty mug and deposits it in the sink. He turns towards the messy sitting room and braces himself for the tidy up. He moves towards the room with determination.

A tall, six foot detective immediately blocks his way. Sherlock peers down at John, his expression pained but fixed.

_"Fine." _Sherlock's thought ring through John with welcoming familiarity.

"Sorry, didn't quite hear you there." John says snidely.

"I said, Fine." Sherlock scowls, "But I have conditions."

John is shocked at how easy he got the detective to agree.

"Okay." John concedes, hiding the enthusiasm of his win. The doctor never wins, ever.

"If, at any point, you feel or I notice the starts of an attack we will stop, I will stop," Sherlock says firmly, appropriately implying that these are non-negotiable.

John just nods eagerly. "And you'll open up your walls again?" John asks hopeful.

"Yes, as much as they were before." Sherlock says, resignation in his voice.

_"Now the cameras, John." _John just smiles and the two of them spend the rest of the afternoon hunting down the almost invisible cameras.

* * *

><p>The next week passes in a blur for the doctor, John spends his days taking shifts at the surgery and nights chasing Sherlock throughout London.<p>

A few days back, Lestrade had called the detective, and about time too, John knows the genius can only last so long without a case.

The case consists of a triple murder in a locked room. Sherlock was at the crime scene in record time, John barely able to keep up with the whirlwind that is the excited detective.

The case has proven to be a tad more difficult and of course Sherlock is enjoying every bit of it.

John walks into the flat, barely dropping his bag and walking fully in the main hallway before Sherlock bounds down the stairs, grabbing the doctor's wrist and heading out the door.

_"Get in the cab."_ John scoffs at the thoughts demand.

"No, Hi John, how was work?" John says, "Just get in the cab. Lovely." The doctor is teasing and he smirks at the genius as they both climb into the cab. Sherlock settles in next to John and says nothing, the doctor looks at the younger man and notices the face, the face of Sherlock Holmes thinking.

"Where are we going now?" John says after a few minutes of silence, his curiosity overwhelming him way to easily.

_"A lead."_

"Any more information or do I only get 'A lead'." John says quietly, looking up at the driver, suddenly feeling very self-conscious at the one sided verbal conversation.

Sherlock doesn't answer, John opens up the link and sees the detective's thoughts running a mile a minute, images and maps, people and places flooded at inhumane speed all over the detective's brain. John pulls out quickly, knowing that Sherlock hates it when John probes during a think. It's too big a distraction.

"Dangerous?" John questions as he looks out the window, his muscle itching with excitement like they always do with a case. The doctor is silently thanking the lord that his shift at the surgery was relaxed today.

_"Possibly."_ Sherlock thoughts are distant but precise. John just nods and relaxes into the seat while Sherlock thinks and the cab driver transports them to the unknown.

John recognises the area of west London vaguely, and for a second, contemplates on whether or not to hack into Sherlock's brain to pull up a map to confirm. The doctor even looks over at the detective but then decides against it. The detective will be less stroppy if John doesn't interfere.

They pull up to a warehouse, it's exterior industrial and bland. The sun is just setting and soon they find themselves alone on the complex in the dark.

_"It's always a warehouse."_ John thinks as he stares at the creepiness of the place. _"Who would meet up here?"_ John asks himself.

"By lead, do you mean you found out where the killer is?" John asks with chagrin.

_"Took you this long, disappointing." _John crosses in arms in annoyance but follows the detective as he moves towards the warehouse, silently wishing he had his gun with him.

_"Here." _Sherlock's hand dips into his jacket and pulls out John's gun. John grabs it, a new confidence in place.

Silently they both walk into the warehouse, machines litter the canvas, towering high over the two men.

"Split up?" John suggests, taking in the massive acre of factory and warehouse.

_"Probably."_

"What am I looking for?" John asks.

"Joseph Abernathy, red hair, mid thirties, one of the victims was his sister-in-law who was cheating on his brother with one of the other victims. The third victim just happened to be in the same room at the time. Joseph works here as the night shift security. He is the only one in the building." Sherlock rattles and then in a flash is off in one direction, leaving the doctor standing in the middle of the warehouse, his mouth agape, reeling from the new information.

_"Why does he do that?_" John asks himself before turning and sauntering off in another direction. He instantly opens up the connection and is comforted by lilac/honey as he makes his way through the creepy and dusty storehouse.

John sees brief images float through Sherlock's mind and they look familiar to what John is seeing. They both search the warehouse for ten minutes, neither of them finding anything.

The doctor stops briefly, a muffled noise permeates the hallway. John strains his ears but the sounds have gone quiet suddenly. He submerges Sherlock's connection, and opens up in search of new ones. New senses and minds find the doctor, clearly more than one brain ahead of him.

_"There is only supposed to be one person here."_ John muses before aiming his gun directly in front of him.

_"John."_ The doctor walks gently towards the muffled sounds, trying to lightly push into any of the strangers' mind.

Suddenly, John hears footsteps behind him, he turns around, half-expecting it to be the detective but a painful throb in his head dispels the thought. John plummets to the ground and his vision goes black.

* * *

><p>John awakes to several things.<p>

1. He is sitting in a chair, his hands tied behind his back with some sort of rope. The doctor's mind is foggy but he can see the bright lights through his closed eyelids, he tries to open up more connections to find anybody in the room but he senses no other person and the throbbing of his head derails him so he stops.

2. John's head hurts, and not from an attack, from an actual blow to the head. John tries to find exactly where he was hit while trying to still appear unconscious but he can only narrow it down to a region.

3. The third thing John is aware of is Sherlock's persistent screaming thoughts rattling around in his foggy brain.

_"John. John. Where are you?"_ The detective repeats over and over. John timidly opens the connection, all the while keeping his face neutral and unconscious looking.

The connection only throbs slightly and it's barely painful, John is familiar with the connection and even when the doctor is having an attack it's hardly ever overbearingly painful.

There is no way John can communicate with the genius, even though Sherlock's thoughts are becoming more frantic at John's disappearance. John does the only thing he can think of to communicate, hoping that the detective understands.

He sends a wave of calm into Sherlock and John can see the detective stop somewhere in the warehouse, his thoughts surging with relief. Then the doctor sends a very brief wave of panic to indicate that John is in danger. The doctor can feel Sherlock's heart beat raise from the emotion and then John sends brief calm to reiterate that he is alright. John stops the emotions and lets Sherlock think.

_"John. Are you hurt?"_ John sends a wave of contentment and then paralyzing helplessness trying to indicate that he is restrained. Conveying his situation through emotions is new for John and he never thought it would be a necessity.

_"Okay. Ropes?"_ Sherlock's thoughts ask and John internally sighs with relief_, _he transmits happiness into Sherlock as a yes._ "Where are you?"_ John sends a brief spout of confusion, indicating that the doctor has no idea where in the warehouse he is, or if he is even in the warehouse.

_"John, look around, find anything you can."_ John has avoided it until this point but decides to open his eyes, slowly. A breeze of blood, metallic and copper fill his noise suddenly and he looks towards the smell. His head throbs with the movement but he ignores it, he sets his eyes on the body next to him.

A man with red hair lays in a pile of dried blood beside him. John stares at the body of one, Joseph Abernathy, his mind confused. _"Who else is here? How is Abernathy dead? Why are they here if the man is dead? Why can I smell the dried blood this strongly?"_ John head reels with questions, he doesn't even noticed a man walking into the room until an unfamiliar face is kneeling before him.

John's head snaps back once he notices the stranger and without thinking plummets himself in the man's mind.

The smell of blood is ten times worse, John wrinkles his noise in disgust and immediately pulls out.

"Hello Johnny Boy." The man sings.


	16. The Crimson Memories

Sorry for the cliffhanger, but I didn't make you wait long did I.

Thank you guys for the 82 reviews, I would have never continued this story without your support.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p><em>"Hello Johnny Boy." The man sings.<em>

* * *

><p>John stills urgently, he would recognise that Irish accent anywhere, the sing-song voice that sometimes plagues the doctor's dreams.<p>

"Moriarty." John acknowledges, nodding his head slowly. John sends a huge wave of panic into the detective, trying to convey the seriousness.

_"John, what is going on?"_ John senses Sherlock reacting from the panic, his thoughts jumbled and disbanded. John backs off with the emotion and lets the detective think. John wishes he could talk to Sherlock, he wishes he could tell him that Moriarty is here.

The mastermind kneels before him, his suit expensive and clean. His eyebrows slightly raised with Admiration? Amusement? Deliberation? Moriarty looks like he is trying to solve a puzzle, the scrutiny unnerves the doctor but he doesn't break eye contact.

Suddenly, another wave of blood wrinkles the doctor's nose. John doesn't know if it's coming from Moriarty or the dead man beside him, and John really doesn't want to find out. The doctor is suddenly and irrationally apprehensive of opening up a connection with the evil man in front of him.

The two of them stare at each for minutes, Moriarty with his intense gaze and John stubbornness refusing to back down, all the while sending emotions to Sherlock, anxiety, fear, confusion, panic, with waves of contentment to tell the detective that he isn't hurt, well not hurt severely. He can feel the drying blood sticking to the side of his face and his head smarts.

_"John."_

It's John who breaks the silence first. "You are much shorter than I would have thought." The words are out before John can stop them and he instantly regrets it.

The doctor closes his eyes and braces himself for pain, instead Moriarty's high pitched laugh reverberates throughout the small room.

The laugh startles the soldier. John opens his eyes to see Moriarty standing up straight, moving around the room with no clear destination.

"You really do have a nasty bark, don't you?" is all Moriarty remarks, the laugh still evident in his voice. The Irishman finally settles for leaning against the wall opposite the restrained doctor. His arms are crossed, his whole body tense with nervousness? Why would the man be nervous, he isn't the one tied to a chair. John gazes at the criminal mastermind and realises something.

Moriarty isn't nervous, he is excited. His body is practically twitching with it and now John feels anxious.

"Why are you here?" John asks breathing through his mouth as the blood smell permeates through the room, enveloping the telepath. _"John_"

"I came to see you, Johnny. Although it is a shame about Joseph, he was a good employee." Moriarty answers with mock sadness, his eyes briefly flashing to the dead man on the floor.

"Why did you kill him?" John tenses as he asks, stalling for time really. The images of hallways in Sherlock's head seem familiar but then again the whole warehouse looks the same everywhere.

"He got greedy." Moriarty says definitively, his tone unapproachable and John doesn't ask anymore questions.

Once again the two sit in silence and John is actually growing bored. John almost snorts, Moriarty, the world's most dangerous criminal is standing in front of him in all his menacing glory and John is bored.

_"I really have to stop being around Sherlock."_ John thinks to himself.

Unwilling to break the silence, John decides to connect with Moriarty again, this time he gags through the onslaught of blood. Moriarty's mind only has one sense, and it's blood, the evil man smells like blood, he taste like blood, and John almost pulls out. The doctor has never come across someone with such an unappealing sense. John refuses to back down, even though blood fills his mind and various images, (the doctor's own) swirl around his head. Images of triage from the war, bleeding soldiers that John couldn't save. Pictures of Sherlock in all his post-case bleeding glory. Red fills the doctor's mind as he sees Sherlock, tied to the sofa bleeding as John watches helpless from the floor.

John shakes his head to try and dispel the images, but he doesn't break the connection, he probes deeper trying to forget his own memories flooding back painfully.

John pushes past the blood, even though it lingers unpleasantly through the doctor's mind and finds where his memories should be. Moriarty's mind is blank, as if the man is devoid of all thought.

John panics, he can't hear the mastermind, no memories, no thoughts meet the doctor, all John sees is red and smells the red substance, as his own thoughts fight for surface. John tries to send deep calm into the criminal mastermind. He stares at the evil man as the deep feelings of calm should wash over Moriarty, expecting to see Moriarty fall still and asleep. Instead, Moriarty just smiles, a devilish curl of the lips that causes John to reel the connection back.

Why can't he hear Moriarty? John literally tries to spit out the metallic taste that has invaded his mouth. The cooper smell still lingering unpleasantly.

_"John."_

John doesn't know what to do, he can't hear Moriarty, he can't send the man to sleep. John is genuinely panicking now. All thoughts of trying to get out of this situation are slowly becoming unreachable dreams.

_"Why?"_ John asks himself over an over as he tries to communicate panic and confusion with Sherlock.

_"Hang on, I'm almost there."_ John sighs with relief, and action that doesn't go unnoticed by Moriarty.

"Sherlock on his way then?" Moriarty asks confidently, John fights for control, fights for his face to remain neutral and not give anything away. Does Moriarty know?

John just stares at the criminal mastermind with his believable, yet false confusion. Moriarty's eyes knit for a second before his eyes shine bright with determination.

"Seb!" The shrill voice calls and John is confused for real this time. The door creaks open and a tall, very military, and very scary man saunters in. His stance straight and obedient.

"Johnny, meet Sebastian Moran." Moriarty says, the man looks like he is trying to hold in jumping for joy. John just stares at Moriarty and then at Moran in disgust.

Neither men say anything, John just stares at the ex-military man.

"Where were you stationed?" John asks, genuinely curious and attempts to convey how the situation isn't affecting him.

"Oooo, Sherlock is wearing off on you. Lucky pet." Moriarty exclaims and clasps his hands together. "Unfortunately, we don't really have time for chit chat. Seb?" Moriarty states and looks over at Moran, a definite unspoken command passes between them. John's body tenses with anxiety.

Moran moves closer to John and out of nowhere a fist connects with John's cheek. The doctor lists to one side, the force of the impact almost sending the ex-soldier out of the chair.

He can feel the bruise smarting but the images that Moran left behind are causing the worst pain. The connection is so instantaneous and gone so quickly that John doesn't have time to condition himself with the connection. The link breaks abruptly and John head burns with pain.

John tries to remember the last time a connection broke so painfully and before he can recall a time, as he is sure it had been months, another blow to his head interrupts him.

John actually moans in protest, flashes of bodies and even flashes of Moriarty himself enter the doctor's brain, causing the connection to become powerful before it breaks painfully.

The doctor's head is in confusion, his emotions are free and he can barely register anything other than pain.

_"John. Hang on."_ Sherlock's thoughts offer comfort but John still winces at the intrusion. Another fist hits him hard and John has to brace himself so he doesn't fall out of the chair. Images of blood invade the telepath, bodies everywhere, image of gun, cleaned, the owner takes pride in the weapon and cleans it out of adoration.

"Stop." John hears Moriarty say and just as quickly as the connection started, it's gone. John is vaguely aware of Moran backing away but the doctor's mind remains distant, trying to pick up the painful pieces.

The doctor attempts to communicate feelings with Sherlock but everything hurts. He lets the lilac/honey comfort him even if it does make his head throb.

A shadow falls over John and he tries to open his eyes that he didn't know he had closed.

"Johnny Boy, you are a soldier. Surely a couple punches can't incapacitate you this much." Moriarty says, his tone with mock confusion and a hint of wicked amusement. The evil man stands, his body directly in front of John's blurred vision. "Unless..."Moriarty's sings, his voice high and piercing through John's already tender brain.

John doesn't even see it coming, his mind too focused on maintaining the pain level and attempting to communicate with Sherlock, nothing prepares him for what happens next.

A hand gently cups his cheek.

John's head explodes, the connection is strong and powerful, nothing like John has ever experienced. He expects painful images to find him, but nothing comes, no thoughts or memories, just blood. John actually screams, the sound loud and piercing. His head goes ballistic as the crimson flows around his brain, causing his own thoughts to come to the forefront. Painful memories from deep within the doctor flood his mind, the blood swims through, intertwining with each memory.

John feels the hot hand on his cheek, but the pain paralyzes him, John is still, his teeth and fists are clenched with fury, anger and pain.

Images of the war, bodies in the sand litter the doctor. The memory of getting shot comes to the forefront and his shoulder aches with the same intensity it did back in the sands of Afghanistan.

All the images are painful and unhappy, images of Sherlock being hurt, painful memories of death and blood capture the doctor's attention as his eyes unfocus and he becomes merciless to his own mind.

An unmeasurable amount of time passes, John's voice is almost hoarse from the screams and the pain is coursing through his body. The images are vibrant and torturous. John can feel the blackness coming, he can feel blood dripping down his nose.

Suddenly the hand is gone and John can breathe again. The blood lingers and so does John's painful memories. John's head lolls on his chest, everything in his body spasms with weakness. His muscles shake violently and his brain feels like mush.

Even the lilac/honey is gone.

"Excellent." is all Moriarty says, and at this moment, John is too fuzzy with pain that he doesn't even register what this all means. That Moriarty knows about John.

"I've got to go Johnny. We will definitely see each other another time." The words filter through the doctor's ears faintly, as does the door creaking open and close.

John doesn't do anything, he remains motionless, his mind reeling in confusion and pain. He tries to find Sherlock, the pain severe. Eventually he finds the lilac/honey. He must have cut the connection at some point. Through his painful haze and weakness, John latches onto the detective.

_"Hang On John. I'm almost there."_ John sends his pain into Sherlock, very briefly. John doesn't stop, or reign in his emotions, the pain has severed his self-control. He lets everything he is feeling flow into Sherlock. His fear, guilt, anger, despair, pain, lots of pain and even his own cowardliness. His stupidity, to think he could beat Moriarty with his mind, his lack of bravery at being proactive in stopping the man.

_"John."_ Sherlock's tone is heart wrenching.

Eventually, the pain becomes too much and John has to break the connection, just as the black spots fill his vision completely and John blacks out.


	17. World's Only Consulting Telepath Trainer

Hello everyone, This story has like over 56,000+ words, jebuss.

I really love all of you guys, not to mention the story alerts and such, You guys are my favorite.

If you guys have any ideas as to where the story should go let me know.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>A pair of hands jolt the doctor awake. The cold concrete beneath him should mean something but John just feels pain and confusion. <em>"What happened?"<em> The doctor thinks through the pain in his head.

"John?" Sherlock's yells invade the doctor's ears. John doesn't open his eyes and he doesn't probe the detective's mind, his head throbs and his muscles are weak. The cold beneath him making him shiver.

"Sherlock." John's confusion comes to the forefront, what happened? Where are they? John opens his eyes in a rush, the small room comes into focus as does the genius's worried face. The detective holds the doctor partially in his lap, gripping the doctor's upper body.

"John, what happened?" Sherlock calls, his voice dripping with barely masked fear. John doesn't answer, his thoughts trying to disquiet the pain and find the memories of what happened.

_"John."_ The doctor winces and Sherlock mutters apologises, gripping the doctor tighter. John tries to wave a hand dismissively, his voice not working right but John catches sight of his wrist, the skin is rubbed raw, crimson wetness flowing eagerly down John's forearms. John stares at his damaged wrist in confusion, he can feel the stinging but he can't fathom how the damage came to be. John brings his wrist closer to his face, examining the extensive injuries.

That's when he smells it, the faint stench of blood, lingering in his nose and the air around them. He instantly turns his head and sees the dead body of Joseph. The memories flood back in a painful rush. John's weak hands find his temples and his eyes squeeze shut, the memories consuming him, the doctor curls himself into Sherlock's lap, willing the images to go away.

"John. John, what's wrong?" The panic fills the room and John's memories finally subside, but the throbbing pain remains.

"Moriarty." John utters weakly, his body writhing and struggling against the memories, all his resolve leaving in waves of pain and frailty. John can feel Sherlock stiffen against him. John keeps his eyes closed as his breathing picks up and his heart beat races uncontrollably.

"He knows." John says panicking. "He knows. He touched me." John lets the tears fall free. "He knows." John repeats over and over again, a sad mantra. Fear envelops John, causing the memories to flow with pain and blood. John struggles against the memories as his body and mind freak out.

"Shh." A hand is place on John's exposed forearm, careful of the doctor's damaged wrists. The connection is instant and the pain is unbearable, but Sherlock's thoughts remain silent. John tries to still as the connection becomes familiar, he knows it's just Sherlock but the connection is tearing at his brain, razor blades cutting at his cerebrum. John tries to focus on the lilac and honey for comfort, but the doctor can't help but wince and whimper involuntarily, wanting the connection to leave. Sherlock's grip tightens and John starts to panic on a whole different level. Why is Sherlock doing this? Why does it hurt so much? Why won't he stop? John writhes against the touch but soon Sherlock opens his memories to John. The detective pulls up memories of comfort and calm, that hurt at first but then the intense emotions from the memory cause the ex-soldier to still and, surprisingly, the pain lessens and starts to fade.

"It's okay. I've got you." Sherlock soothes and the doctor grips the detective shirt with his free hand, anything to anchor the doctor to the calm.

Sherlock pushes the memory of John calming him at Mycroft's. John lets the feelings in the memory envelop him, acting as some reverse agent. The feeling is so strong that John senses the pain deteriorating quickly.

"How is this possible?" John rasp weakly, even more confused now. John opens his eyes to look at the stormy gray eyes.

Sherlock just shakes his head, continuing with his calming memories and rocking John back and forth. John feeling weaker and weaker as exhaustion threatens to capture him.

John wants to open his mouth again, remark on how amazed he is, how is this even possible? It's some weird reverse affect of John's powers. The ability to have such a strong emotional memory that it acts as a calming agent for the doctor is unthinkable. Why? Is it because John is responsible for the intense calm in the first place? Is that why the emotion is so potent and transferable?

Or maybe, it's just another weird, really weird, quirk of the detective. John doesn't know, and he is way to tired right now to hammer out the details. He lets his eyes slide close in confusion and fatigue.

"Hospital?" Sherlock asks timidly, as the man in front of him relaxes, his body going slack and his face lax with calm. John contemplates the decision. He isn't hurt, besides his wrist, which he can treat. There is nothing they can do for him at the A&E. Besides, the hospital staff would just hold him hostage as they try to find an explanation for his unexplainable symptoms.

"No, I don't think so," John states, "I just need rest." To prove his point John lets out a struggled yawn.

The detective nods, "Mycroft will be here soon." Sherlock states, pushing his calming memories harder and faster than ever. John is already exhausted so he has no defense against the onslaught of unfair memories, and before he can ask why the politician would be coming here, John's fight against sleep looses and his eyelids droop.

John falls asleep just as the sounds of a certain politician invade the room.

* * *

><p>John wakes slowly to silence, his body cold and stiff, but the smell of lilac starts to warm him significantly, whereas the mental taste of honey soothe the doctor and cradle him in a blissful half-consciousness.<p>

His head throbs slightly, but all smell/taste of blood is long since evaporated.

_"Thank god, I wouldn't be able to stand it if that was permanent." _John thinks with relief.

_"John." _John flinches at the thought, not out of pain but out of irrational surprise.

The doctor can feel Sherlock wrapped around him, the tight embrace stiff from the motionless sleep, but its welcoming all the same.

John knows the detective is awake beside him, the older man can feel the rapid thoughts pulsating from the genius, experiments and thoughts play on fast forward through the tactile connection.

_"Bored." _

John chuckles out loud, his self-control shot.

"About time." Sherlock huffs, as if John's sleeping is of great inconvenience, and knowing the detective it probably is. Nevertheless, John finds himself a little peeved at the comment. He's tired and can tell how much his attack wore him out. His muscles still ache and his head throbs tolerably. All the doctor really wants to do is go back to sleep, even though he knows he's been unconscious for a long time, if he listens to the stiffness in his shoulder scream at him. The doctor tries to push the detective away in protest, hoping that the branches of sleep will grab him once again.

Sherlock just seizes the doctor tighter, preventing John from moving at all, his grip pleading.

_"Don't. Stay, please."_

John opens his eyes to see Sherlock's face in a mask of begging vulnerability. John, of course, melts into the look and stops his small struggle and actually scoots closer to the detective.

He nuzzles his head against Sherlock's shoulder and closes his eyes in contentment.

"How long?" John asks after a couple of minutes, the question steadily routine after one of John's attacks.

"23 hours and 12 minutes." Sherlock answers.

John just gapes at the younger man in shock, the doctor figured he'd been asleep awhile but not that long.

"I've been out for a day." The doctor whispers incredulously, immediately feeling an irrational sense of unproductive laziness.

_"Not technically."_ Sherlock's thoughts point out and John just rolls his eyes.

"Close enough." John states. As they lay in silence, the whole day wasted causes the sleep to leave and reality to follow with horrifying despair.

"He knows." John says, his voice calm but inside his mind is freaking out in a panicked frenzy. How? How does he know? Why?

_"I know."_ Sherlock sighs.

"How?" John exasperates, his mind confused and scared. "I just don't understand. You and Mycroft are the only ones who know." John adds.

"I don't know." Sherlock says out loud. His tone filled with resented defeat and unhappiness.

"You don't think Mycroft..."

"I don't think so." Sherlock starts, his voice analytical. "There would be no benefit, beside my brother has never met Moriarty." John contemplates and nods, the politician is many things; a kidnapper, extortionist, the base of the British Government, and occasionally the concerned older brother but talkative he is not. Especially talkative to a criminal mastermind, proclaimed arch enemy of his younger brother. The thought seems unlikely, even more so to talk about something so precious. John's gift to read people's mind.

"I think you're right. I don't think Mycroft would share...valuable information with Moriarty." John states finally, still worrying how the criminal could have found out and what he intends to do now.

"What happens if Moriarty gets bored? What if he tells someone?" John questions feebly, not even wanting to imagining what would happen if people found out about John. The press would be everywhere and eyes would follow him with disbelieving grunts. John starts to panic internally.

"Who would believe him?" Sherlock remarks and if John was looking at the detective he would have seen an eyebrow raised on the defined, cheek-boned face.

John realises that the detective is right...again. Who would believe the criminal mastermind? The story is crazy and John only believes it because it's his life.

"_I'm always right."_ Sherlock's thoughts are smug as always and before John can respond, the detective continues, _"He'll want you all to himself."_ The thought pains Sherlock and sends shivers uncontrollably down John's spine.

John shudders at the thought of being in the presence of Moriarty again, the man tormenting him and making him smell/taste the blood, John sitting by in terror, his brain being forced to betray the doctor's control.

"It was nothing like I've ever witness." John states, "He controlled my brain, Sherlock. It was...scary. Beyond scary." John deadpans, his emotions so frayed by the thoughts, memories of the blood and sand worming there way through John's brain, it's easier to stay clinical and detached. "He smelled and tasted of blood," Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the statement, unbeknownst to the doctor, who is looking away, John's eyes misty with sadness. "He radiated it," John continues, "I literally tasted it after a while. He could bring up images and fill them with so much blood. I saw fallen soldiers on the sand, I saw myself get shot, I...saw you after you got shot."

The tears streak down both of their cheeks shamelessly.

John shakes his head at the unpleasantness, Sherlock grips and sends calm thoughts into John. The doctor tries to tell the detective to stop, tries to communicate how unfair it is that Sherlock can calm the doctor, but all John can do is feel the lump in his throat, preventing him from speaking and tears welling in his eyes, preventing him from seeing.

"I've never been so out of control of my own brain before," John continues, afraid that if he stops, despite his tears and emotions, he won't be able to speak of it again. It would sit in the doctor, bottled up in a container of fear, sadness, grief and pain. It's better to get it out now, no matter how much the doctor is crying or how hard it is to speak his vulnerabilities out loud. "It was like he was diving into my memories and picking out the ones that would hurt me the most." John swallows thickly, "I don't know how he did it, but I never want that feeling to happen again."

Sherlock's own eyes are letting tears fall, staring at the broken man in his arms.

"I've never thought my ability could hurt, or be used against me, and I never hated what I could do, not once," John states, "but in that moment I loathed my ability, I hated how much pain it could cause me." John sniffles at his confession.

"And it scares me," John proceeds, "If I can feel that much pain from my gift unknowingly, who's to say that one day I won't be able to control myself and inflict that kind of pain upon someone else." John exasperates, horror evident in his voice.

Sherlock stiffens with incredulity.

"You won't." Sherlock responds, his tone flat and firm and he holds onto the crying doctor with force, he stance reflecting his thoughts and voice. They say _"John Watson is a good man."_

"You don't know that." John cries, feeling Sherlock's confident body language but ignores it. His thoughts imagining images of future people running from him in fear. Their faces distraught and in pain, pain that John caused.

_"I know for a fact, John Watson." _Sherlock's thoughts offer a sense of relaxation, not enough to dispel the doctor completely, but enough to get the thoughts of future people in pain out of his head.

"How?" John questions disbelieving of the consulting detective's powers and predictions of the future.

_"Because you are you, John, an ex-army medic, a gun-wielding cabby shooter," _John chuckles at that despite his sadness, _"and the most true and wonderful person I've met."_

John shies away from the comment, his wet cheeks blushing slightly. _"You have the rules for a reason John, if you have complied by them this long, I highly doubt you'll break them in the future, don't be dull, John. You are a smart, good man." _

Sherlock thoughts placate the doctor who's tense body starts to relax.

"I thought I was an idiot?" John remarks smirking.

_"Oh you are,"_ Sherlock places kisses into John's hair, soothing the doctor. _"__ But not in this situation, and besides you are my idiot."  
><em>John doesn't know whether to bounce on the detective for his thoughts or to run away and vomit from the mushiness. Instead, he just stays, wrapped in his embrace, as the thoughts start to leave him, the doctor smiling, letting the lilac/honey warm him back into pleasant thoughts, away from Moriarty and his distressing hold.

* * *

><p>"I think it's time for an experiment." Sherlock pronounces to the empty sitting room, loudly enough so John can hear him in the kitchen. The doctor peeks his head out of the kitchen apprehensively. Sherlock is upright, his legs tangled with each other and his fingers steepled underneath his chin.<p>

John bites back a groan, so much for a quiet night full of crap telly. The doctor finishes making his tea and stares longingly at the telebox as he crosses the sitting, plopping himself on his chair, opposite the thinking detective on the settee. The doctor looks expectantly at the Sherlock, wondering what kind of experiment the genius is thinking about, a part of the doctor waiting in an excited anticipation.

Sherlock shifts somewhat nervously with jerky movements, John just stares at the unfamiliar movement and the unfamiliar display of nervousness.

"I find myself...thinking back to the night at the warehouse," John stiffens involuntarily at the thought and mimics Sherlock's anxiety. Unpleasant images plague the doctor's mind briefly. John tries to push the thoughts out of his head and listen to the detective, who is contemplating on how to communicate his words.

"It seemed...appropriate to be able to communicate with the feelings." Sherlock says after a few minutes, the detective lost in his own memories that he can't delete, no matter how hard he has tried.

The doctor stares at Sherlock, nodding in agreement. Truthfully, John hasn't thought about that part of the night in the warehouse, if he does think about that night, he is always swept up by the memories Moriarty tainted. He avoids those memories as much as possible.

He didn't realise how helpful being able to communicate with Sherlock with his feelings until after the fact. Now John knows, that conveying his emotions to Sherlock, the detective was able to act fast and prevent John from further torture. When Sherlock first found out something was wrong that night, based on John's emotions, he texted Mycroft who in turn gathered intelligence. Moriarty's own intel alerted them to Mycroft's impending visit and the criminal mastermind fled, prematurely.

John shudders at the potential thought of Moriarty staying longer and tormenting John further. The images horrify him.

"I think we should have some sort of code." Sherlock suggests, breaking John out of his thoughts.

"The fact that we need a code should probably send off alarms." John remarks, smirking.

_"Regardless, I think it would beneficial." _Sherlock scowls and John just snickers.

"Yes, okay, okay fine." John concedes. "Who am I kidding, we get into trouble everyday. It would be helpful." John resigns.

Sherlock nods, his victorious nod. "So what kind of code." John questions, sipping his mug, wondering what the detective is thinking.

_"Well simple emotions for answers." _

"So, if you ask a question and I'm incapacitated, I fill you full of happiness for a yes?" John asks, slightly confused and disbelieving it's potential uses.

_"Exactly. Is that possible?"_

The doctor replies with opening up the connection, the senses overtaking him and happiness radiating from his mind into the detective. A definite yes.

Sherlock smiles warmly and John beams back. John retracts the happiness, letting it fade naturally out of the genius.

"Obviously sadness for no, then?" John proceeds, sending a very reluctant, very brief wave of sadness into the genius. Sherlock's smile disappears and a frown instantly replaces it. John backs out immediately and sends a happy wave again.

"Good, John." Sherlock says, shifting slightly on the couch, untangling his legs and putting them out in front of him.

_"When you are hurt?" _

John sends the easiest thing he can think of, a wave of pain, simple, short, and to the point. Sherlock's breath catches slightly and he grimaces. John is out, ready to apologise with fervor. The detective's hand is up and waving dismissively.

_"Excellent. When you aren't hurt?" _

John thinks for a minute before sending a wave of contentment to the genius, washing out previous feelings of pain.

"What about if you can't respond? Having an attack?" Sherlock questions timidly.

"If I can't respond, I'm probably unconscious," John snides back softly, "If I'm having an attack I'll send panic." John adds and sends brief panic to prove his point.

Sherlock nods in agreement and leans back on the couch restlessly.

"I think...I think we should have an emotion for Moriarty, something unpleasant and fitting." Sherlock suggests and John cringes, not wanting to really think about a situation where the doctor would need to use the emotion for the criminal mastermind.

John just nods with resignation and focuses on finding an emotion that he associates with Moriarty. The older man doesn't have to think hard. He sends waves into Sherlock who stiffens with pride.

_"Fear and irritation, excellent."_ Sherlock's thoughts swell with the emotions, his eyes flashing bright but his face neutral, John backs out and replaces the troublesome feelings with calm and safety.

The two sit in silence, but of them relaxed, Sherlock feeling happy and John feeling happy because the detective is safe and calm.

"I just had a thought, this is going to make you invincible, the ability to actually read how I'm feeling." John asks, the sudden thought unbearable, the detective becoming anymore superior is a fate worse than death.

"You are controlling, I'm not doing anything." was Sherlock's snide reply.

"It was your idea." John mumbles grumpily and narrows his eyes at the detective who smugly smiles. The World's Only Consulting Detective also happens to be The World's Only Consulting Telepath Trainer.

Excellent.

* * *

><p><em>Okay, so next chapter, John keeps kidnapped by Mycroft, but should Mycroft be forceful, make John use his gift? Or should he just want an explanation?<em>

_I guess I'm asking if I should make Mycroft slightly evil, which could be slightly fun.  
><em>

_ Let me know.  
><em>


	18. Telenapped?

_Sorry this is a really long Author's Note,_

I just realized that John, himself, has never told anyone about his rules. So...I'm going to change that.

Thank you everyone for your input, I've decided to make Mycroft 'friendly' but that doesn't mean there won't be conflict between John and the politician, scientific purposes of course.

The Mycroft/John story arc will be two, maybe two and a half chapters.

Mycroft's true intentions won't come for another chapter yet, so please be patient.

Also, I'm working on editing pictures (I'm a photographer) as well writing two stories at once.

This fic has gotten over 100 reviews, that just makes me swell with pride, I really appreciate you guys and when I start my other stories, (after this one is finished of course) I will respond to each and every review. There are too many to start with this story.

Also, if you guys have any prompts or plot bunnies, I would be more than willing to write for you.

I love making new friends.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>John doesn't make a habit of shopping on his own, not after Mycroft so rudely kidnapped the doctor and threatened to keep him against his will <em>and <em>use John as a tool in the British Government. Yes, the doctor avoids Tesco shopping alone for the sake of his sanity.

As if Mycroft impending presence isn't enough, John especially doesn't make a habit out of shopping alone because of a certain criminal mastermind who has made his his motivations clear and known recently.

However, sometimes life can't account for a stroppy consulting detective who refuses to leave the flat for nonsensical reasons, at least they are nonsensical to John.

The exploding of unsupervised acid couldn't make any less sense, in fact it's the logical thing to do. What is senseless to John is the fact that there is a necessity for exploding acid in the flat, in the first place.

It just gives the doctor two reasons to leave, the shopping and escaping the acid experiment that he will not be cleaning up when it backfires.

The footpaths of London are busy as usual and so John finds himself weaving gracefully, yet lazily, taking his time getting to Tesco, mostly because he knows how busy the shop is going to be and that is something that John is not looking forward too, but also because John doesn't want to come home prematurely to the experiment.

However, for some reason fate, at least when it comes to Mycroft, doesn't like it when John tries to get the groceries, this will be twice now.

John turns the last corner, onto the street that the shop is located and stops instantly, creating a small traffic jam behind him.

_"No, honestly, does this man not have a phone."_ John thinks bitterly to himself and looks around quickly. The politician stands against his black sedan right in front of the very Tesco that John is trying to escape too. Mycroft's stance is non-threatening and even friendly, his face relaxed and welcoming. John isn't placated so easily, all the ex-soldier wants to do is retreat. Irrationally, he scans the area and makes an escape plan, because there is no way he is getting in that car, not after the last time.

"John," The doctor can hear the man's voice clear as day, even though they are still quite a bit away from each other. The tone is a dark contrast to his stance, it's threatening and impatient. John bows his head and starts to pivot, turning back towards the way he came, when a hand clamps on his good shoulder.

The doctor sighs in resignation when he looks up to see the burly, suited man. The hand is gone as quickly as it came and now the two of them look like they are just standing strangely in the middle of the footpath.

John looks to Mycroft again, who is examining his cuticles, with an surrendering huff. Mycroft's goon behind the doctor nudges him, rather gently actually.

The doctor walks hesitantly towards the elder Holmes, who straightens, his eyes beaming like the thought of John complying actually pleases him.

John literally has to resist the urge to vomit.

Finally, the doctor reaches the sedan and glowers at the politician.

"So nice of you to join me." Mycroft says pleasantly, as if he weren't about to kidnap John, in front of Tesco, in the middle of London.

John contemplates briefly about calling for Sherlock, just opening up the connection and making the detective aware of his brother's latest conquest.

Two things stop him,

The first reason is the fact that Mycroft chose not to bring Sherlock into the situation, which he could have easily done by calling upon Baker Street (which the politician also has a habit of doing, kidnapping sedans and unexpected visits, that's Mycroft Holmes). Instead, he chose to abduct John again, seemingly ignorant to the last time when Mycroft took John somewhere against his will. The doctor knows that Mycroft isn't moronic and just like his younger brother, the elder Holmes always has a plan. So why take John in the most threatening way, is it purely out of convenience or is Mycroft setting the hostile and threatening stage for the rest of their chat, and John hopes to god it's just a chat and not imprisonment.

_"Would Mycroft do that? After everything that's happened?"_ John asks himself with doubt.

The politician is obviously trying to not be threatening, he is waiting patiently for John still friendly, if not, a little impatient. _"Is the friendlies for me? Or in case of a scene, in front of citizens?"_ John questions the politician's grounds.

Maybe Mycroft chose this way to 'meet' with him is because the politician is truly not trying to take John away from his life, it truly is the most convenient.

_"Couldn't he have done it more civilly."_ John thinks with resentment, stilling scanning the politician with hidden disgust.

The second thing that stops the doctor, as if the first reason isn't sound enough, is the fact that they don't have a code, or an emotion for Mycroft. _"Well, that was stupid of us."_ John scoffs to himself. Obviously, the oldest Holmes brother is the one they should have been watching out for. How stupid to have a code for Moriarty and not one for the most dangerous man in London.

Suddenly, John becomes frustrated. His mind is reeling and for the life of him can't understand why the elder Holmes insist upon playing John like a puppet in the doctor's own life.

Realising that he hasn't even attempted to the read the man's thoughts, John pushes himself in without hesitation, his frustration, anger and fear of the situation fueling his decision. One thing is for sure, John finds no qualms in reading the politician's mind, even if the man can feel it. For the most dangerous man in the world, John throws his rules out the window.

The doctor, in his new confidence, notices Mycroft's grimace immediately but doesn't stop. Instead, he lets the caramel and chocolate wash over him as he dives into the man's thoughts.

Mycroft's thoughts are fast, like usual. John concentrates hard and actively slows down the rapid thoughts. Images of the Diogenes club comes into view, at least John knows where they are going. The doctor digs deeper trying to find something, anything to gain the upper hand. The connection expands as John continues to hold the thoughts hostage and slow, the tension like a rubber band and the further John digs, the farther the rubber band stretches.

A firm grip on John's upper arm stops the doctor, the fingers digging into his skin with bruising force. The sting of the grip makes John loses his concentration and Mycroft's thoughts snap, sending a slight stab of pain, jolting the doctor before fading away. With John's focus lost, the images pick up their pace and fly by rapidly. John lets them go, somewhat tired by the exertion, he hardly ever uses this much energy when reading someone's mind.

John contemplates keeping the connection open, but a firm look from Mycroft makes John back out, not out of obedience but fatigue. The politician's mind is so intricate and hard to follow, it practically zaps the energy right out of the doctor.

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson." Mycroft commands, breaking John's reverie, his face smiling, but his eyes bright with impatience and anger and his tone holding authority.

It takes everything in John power to not answer the command in the politician's voice. John may be a telepath now and a man who bloody well fears Mycroft but he once was a soldier and the soldier part in him is trying to tear itself away from the disobedient John.

The ex-soldier stays still, looking right at Mycroft, John's face cool and neutral.

"Do you remember what happened last time?" John asks, still catching his breath from invading Mycroft's mind. The doctor keeps his tone slightly threatening but with his usual good-nature. His eyes, however, tell a different story, the icy blue erupt with hesitant defiance and unwillingness to bow to Mycroft's demands.

The politician narrows his eyes, no doubt remembering their disastrous last meeting, he leans closer to John, the doctor holds his ground, letting Mycroft, rather reluctantly and awkwardly, into his space.

"John, I understand this may seem...alarming for you, but you will be getting into this car no matter what." Mycroft hisses and John doesn't have to be a mind reader to know that Mycroft is serious and unfortunately confident and right.

John, very briefly debates dropping Mycroft and his goon to the pavement with calm and sleep. Something stops the doctor, _"Yeah that would go over well, Mycroft wouldn't leave them alone ever again if John took that offensive strike."_

John's defiance shatters.

In the end, John really doesn't have a choice. He is getting in this car, regardless of the scene, the yelling or the insulting he could possibly do. So, instead of doing either of those previously mentioned, the doctor gets into the car wordlessly, his head held high and his thoughts jumping.

The thing is, John should feel fear, downright terror for getting into this situation again, maybe even anger that he could so easily be persuaded into the government sedan en route to (hopefully) the Diogenes estate. Instead, all the doctor feels is slight apprehension and a sudden longing for exploding acid.

Mycroft enters the sedan just as quiet, sitting opposite John, his eyes smug. The goon shuts the door and places himself in the front seat, next to the driver. The inside is plush and annoyingly luxurious. With a snap of Mycroft's fingers, a black, soundproof barrier slides up, effectively cocooning the two men in the backseat.

John glares at the politician, refusing to speak but keeping menacing eye contact.

_"John. Can you pick up some more cleaners?" _Any other day, that thought would have caused annoyance and fear but the detective has been strangely absent this entire time and John welcomes the sudden impression of Sherlock on his brain, not to mention the probable acid spill is the least of his worries at the moment. He instantly opens up to the comforting connection whilst he continues to glare at the elder Holmes, the two of them locked into a sort of staring contest that John never wanted to be involved in, ever.

John decides to send a wave of contentment to the detective, while the sedan remains silent. John doesn't dare reach for his mobile, even though it's been burning a whole in his pocket the entire time.

Part of the doctor wants Sherlock to know that he is with Mycroft and that he may or may not be in danger but for the most part is fine.

Eventually, John gets bored, yes bored, and breaks the eye contact, he turns to the tinted windows and looks out onto London. His mind twitching with questions and thoughts, panic raising slightly as the streets becoming unfamiliar and the day grows darker.

_"He's not going to let me go this time."_ John can't get the idea out of his head, the fear that Mycroft will keep the telepath for himself and use John for government purposes.

_"Why would he let me go last time just to go back on his word."_ The doctor tries reasoning with himself, even though numerous arguments dissuade John's thoughts.

Sherlock being the number one reason. Yes it would be unbearable for the politician if the youngest Holmes interjected himself into Mycroft's life, trying to find John, trying to avenge John. But considering the advantages of using someone who can read minds, one, lanky six foot Sherlock Holmes is a rather small downside, one the politician could decide to ignore for the greater good of the government or, maybe, Mycroft's own selfish needs.

John shakes his head, trying to dispel thoughts. For know he would just have to wait and see and in the mean time try not to get Sherlock wound up.

_"John, what's going on?"_ Sherlock pieced together the contentment, knowing immediately that John is in some sort of situation, because contentment is code for _"I'm fine. I'm not hurt."_

Not the correct answer for agreeing to pick up more supplies.

John just sends contentment again.

_"It's not Moriarty," _John holds in his huff of annoyance and sends a wave of happiness and then lets his annoyance shine into Sherlock.

_"Mycroft." _Looks like they found a code for Mycroft after all. John actually snorts while sending the happy yes to Sherlock.

"Something funny?" The politician's voice echoes in the backseat. The doctor glances over to see the quizzical expression of Mycroft. John doesn't answer and continues to stare out the window, waiting for their destination.

"Sherlock will not be able to interrupt us this time." Mycroft says conversationally, his words alarming but the tone is not, it's nonchalant and small, an attempt to appear as less threatening as possible

John scowls out the window incredulously, "What, are we just going to circle London in the car until I talk to you?" John questions huffily. When silence answers him, John turns his head to the politician. "We are aren't we?"

"Yes." is Mycroft's simple answer and John's face drops.

How is going to communicate that to Sherlock? There isn't an emotion for driving endlessly around London with his boyfriend's crazy brother in charge.

Actually there is, an emotion that is, annoyance, pure unadulterated vexation. However, John couldn't convey that because that's already the emotion for Mycroft in general, not to mention how would the detective put two and two together, he's brilliant, but not that smart.

"Fantastic." John mutters petulantly.

_"Where are you?"_ Sherlock thoughts are calm and collected but John can feel and see the panic as the detective whirls around the apartment, flashes of coats and pacing passing between the couple.

John sends confusion and irritation, hoping to give the idea to the detective that they, Mycroft and John, cannot be found.

"Mycroft," John starts exasperated, "Why am I here?" John slides away from the window and turns to face the politician, maybe this time they can be civil. John snuffs at the thought of Mycroft being accommodating, let alone civil.

At least, if John talks they can hurry it along and John can return to Baker Street.

"I only wish to talk, John." Mycroft states, raising a surrendering hand, John's pose a little more defensive then normal. John huffs and crosses his arms across his chest.

"You have a mobile, we could have arranged a meeting," John sneers, clearly annoyed.

"That's not how I work." is Mycroft's simple answer and John, surprisingly, accepts it.

"Yes, your right, dramatic kidnappings and theatrics are more your style." John says snidely, looking the politician straight in the eye.

_"Are you at the Diogenes Club?"_ John, without alerting Mycroft, sends a wave of unhappiness towards the detective.

John sits, waiting. "What do you want to know, Mycroft?"

"Everything." The politician responds, and John is instantly propelled back to when he was telling Sherlock about his gift. Mycroft is as eager now, just as Sherlock was then.

_"Are you at the first manor? The second house?"_ John sends two independent waves of unhappiness.

"Let's start with the rules?" Mycroft asks, and for the first time, he is hesitant, asking for permission rather demanding. "You mentioned them before."

_"Are you at his office?"_ Sherlock's thoughts are panicking as the list of the places John could be grows shorter. John sighs, resisting the urge to shake his head in response. He sends another wave of brief unhappiness, indicating his no. _"Where the bloody hell are you?" _John can see, through Sherlock's thoughts, the detective literally pacing on the pavement of some street.

John exhales with resignation.

"Rule 1?" Mycroft encourages, the first time he has showed any sign of humanity. This just makes the man more bloody terrifying.

* * *

><p>So what did you think?<p> 


	19. The Blue Sleeved Man

Oh my gosh, the response from last chapter is amazing.

Home Invasion and this story are now on the same chapters, 19. When I originally sought out to make a multi-chapter story I honestly didn't think , a) it would be this long and b) the response would be so significant. I wish I could give all of you cookies, and maybe kisses too.

I love people.

Okay so three things.

1. Fair warning: They are not going to get through all the rules in this visit.

2. I'm trying to keep Mycroft in cannon, and I'm doing that through manipulation. I really hope that his is okay with everyone.

3. This chapter is long. I know most of you won't complain, at least I hope not.

Also, I wrote Mycroft with the impression that he knows the two of them are communicating but doesn't say anything, he just gets impatient, you'll see.

Anyway, here we go.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p><em>Previously,<em>

_"Are you at his office?"_ Sherlock's thoughts are panicking as the list of the places John could be grows shorter. John sighs, resisting the urge to shake his head in response. He sends another wave of brief unhappiness, indicating his no. _"Where the bloody hell are you?"_ John can see, through Sherlock's thoughts, the detective literally pacing on some street.

John exhales with resignation.

"Rule 1?" Mycroft encourages, the first time he has showed any sign of humanity. This just makes the man more bloody terrifying.

* * *

><p>"When I first got the gift, it was strange and new, I didn't know what was happening. I thought I was mad." John starts and Mycroft leans forward slightly, obviously intrigued, "When I finally settled down and realised...my ability, I came up with the rules."<p>

_"John, I don't know where you are." _John heart wrenches at the confession, Sherlock's thoughts pained with defeat.

John sends a wave a happiness, _"Yes you do, just think about it." _Along with content.

Meanwhile, Mycroft is nodding in excitement, his eyes following John's lips as the doctor tells the one thing that is so personal, so sacred that only Sherlock's ears have heard. John feels no reservations in resenting the fact that his rules are being coerced out of him, politely maybe, but still forcefully, nonetheless.

"And further yet, you have to realise that I was an aspiring doctor. I am rooted to help people." John explains, "And that brings up to rule one, if I have an opportunity to save a live using my ability, I will, if it doesn't risk exposing myself."

"This is the most important rule and it is the basis for the all the other rules. One that I abide by no matter what." John says firmly, looking right into the politician's eyes with conviction.

Mycroft just stares at the doctor, his face excited but a calm, neutral flows underneath, like the politician is trying to hide his level of interest.

"Why?" Mycroft asks with genuine curiosity.

"It's difficult to explain," John starts "The first few months of my gift, when I wasn't busy trying to get rid of it or hide the fact that I may have been going mad, I saw people dying all the time. Some from misdiagnosis and other from malpractice." John declares, he's never told anyone this before, and yes, the detective knows the rules but he doesn't know the reasoning behind them. Sherlock didn't ask and John didn't find it worth mentioning, the genius just accepted John's morals and moved on.

Now, the elder Holmes is learning so many things about John, the doctor has to resists the urge to shift with nervous movements.

"It wasn't until I started to accept my ability, that I started practicing." John swallows, "My nightly rounds were the best time because no one was around. I went around to the sleeping patients and find out all I could from them, their pain level, where they are really hurt, stuff like that. I would mark on their charts and when the morning doctors would come in they would investigate the discrepancies."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at John but the doctor ignores it.

"Nobody ever knew it was me. A successful hospital has so much staff that an intern goes unnoticed most of the time." John observes, idly looking out the window as the sedan continues maneuvering throughout London without a destination.

_"Are you in his car?" _Bing, bing, bing. John resist the urge to smile at Sherlock's deduction, instead silent waves of happiness are sent immediately, and John continues his narrative.

"The rule didn't really get a good footing until I was stationed in the comatose ward." John sighs, remembering the still patients that couldn't bathe themselves or talk to their visiting loved ones. "I knew I could help those people and it wouldn't expose me." John states, "The ward's numbers in patient awakenings skyrocketed the week I was there." The doctor smiles to himself and Mycroft looks...impressed? This surprises John, the elder Holmes is not one to be pegged in cahoots with compassion.

"How?" is Mycroft's one word question, John translates it into, _"How did you wake them up?"_

"It was a bit clumsy in the beginning, I didn't know what I was doing and I could only do it through touching them, skin to skin." John explains trying to be as vague as possible, realising Mycroft doesn't really know about the tactile connection and John doesn't really want to explain it in further detail or really at all to the politician, some aspects are better kept secret. John continues his narrative without pausing so Mycroft can't interject.

_"Is there a destination involved?"_ John wants to send happiness because Sherlock finally understands but he sends unhappiness for his answer and then follows it with euphoria and excitement. _"No, thank god you figured it out." _

"The brain, at least the way I see it, is in layers." John resumes, not letting the fact that Sherlock can still possibly find them shine through the doctor's face. "The surface layer is incoherent thoughts. I have to break through the first layer to get to the second and so on." John states and Mycroft nods his head in understanding, with an enthusiastic neutrality. John didn't even know that one could be enthusiastic and neutral at the same time.

"The second layer is where the thoughts lie, it's not hard breaking through the layers, especially not the first one, they are flimsy and offer minimal protection." John remarks, "After the second layer, there are more layers where deeper thoughts lie and other memories surface, as the layers go further down, the memories become more and more personal."

"I have to dig deep to find where the coma patients were hiding." John expresses, "In the deepest part of their brain lies a room of sorts, it's a mental apparition of course, but almost every person has one, including Sherlock, except that man is able to access his room whenever and it's decorated like a throne room."

"His mind palace?" Mycroft asks incredulously.

"His mind palace." John responds and they both share a chuckle, the two of them sharing a moment when tension evaporates and a genuine pleasant experience happens.

John hates it, he craves the tension again.

The chuckles subside and John proceeds, "Anyways, in this room, there is a mental corporeal form of the person, at least when you are in a comatose state there is, and I honestly don't know if it's there all the time. I've only seen it when I've waken people up. I don't pry that deep with conscious people." John remarks, finding it easier and easier to convey his thoughts out loud. It feels strangely good to get all of this off his chest, even though he knows that someday this is going to come back and bite him in the arse.

"So you talk to the mental versions of themselves and they wake up." Mycroft says, trying to understand, but a little confused.

"Kind of, I appear to them in my own sense of apparition. I lead them to the surface of their thoughts and that wakes them up." John states, looking towards the window again, wondering where Sherlock's thoughts are, they've been silent for a while now.

"And it didn't expose you?" Mycroft questions, wringing his hands with fascination.

"At first, the patients would wake up and talk of dreams and memories of a blond man, an angel leading them to consciousness. I got more cautious after that and soon I could erase all memories of my presence." John says with a sense of finality.

John stares at London in silence, slightly distressed by how easy it is to share this with Mycroft, they really need to move onto another rule.

"So rule one is you will save a life, if it doesn't risk exposure." Mycroft clarifies and John just nods, looking at Mycroft with an almost disinterest.

Mycroft hums over the new information for a couple minutes and John alternates between coaxing out Sherlock's thoughts (to no avail, the detective is being silent for some reason, leaving John really alone) and looking out the window, trying to find a location.

"What is Sherlock's brain like?" Mycroft asks suddenly, John looks over to the politician and catalogs the unnecessary hesitancy.

"A lot like yours, his thoughts rapid and incoherent until they slow down." John remarks vaguely, he may be forced to explain his rules and such to the politician but the elder Holmes doesn't need to know everything.

Mycroft nods again in contemplation, his eyes wondering.

_"John, I've been so idiotic." _John sighs with relief and chuckles lightly as Mycroft stares bewildered at the doctor. John is a little confused at Sherlock's thought, until he sees the detective running down the familiar Baker Street and into the flat, images of the stairs and then John's computer flash in the doctor's mind.

A shrill ring echoes the car. Mycroft digs his mobile out and glares at the screen before ignoring the call.

_"Aha, got you now." _Sherlock's thoughts are victorious and John can only deduce that the detective just remembered the GPS tracker program.

"I work for the British Government, John. Do you really think I would be traceable by my mobile." Mycroft says and John really wonders if the politician can't read his mind, the thought truly scary.

_"Yes, but my mobile isn't."_ John contemplates saying this out loud, but he definitely doesn't want Mycroft to realise John still had his mobile.

"It doesn't matter, there is a GPS jammer in the car." John face falls, of course there is, of course Mycroft thought ahead. John sends a wave of unhappiness to the detective. _"No, you didn't find us, the GPS is fake." _John can feel Sherlock's thoughts fall into contemplation again.

_"The GPS isn't working, you aren't even on the map." _John sends a wave of happiness, _"Yes, I'm untraceable." _

Anger courses through the detective as his thoughts go silent once again, John only comforted by the lilac and honey duo. The doctor sends a wave of contentment to the detective. _"I'm not hurt, Mycroft and I are just chatting, I'll be home soon." _The doctor hopes he can convey that much, he doesn't believe that Mycroft is going to cause him harm anymore, the politician is just curious.

At least, John hopes this is the case.

"Are you two done communicating?" Mycroft's impatience shines, although, strangely, the politician doesn't ask how they are actually communicating.

John would have given an indignant huff but Mycroft's tone held a distinct authority that made John sheepishly smiled and shrugged, like a bloody school girl being caught, and that thought did get an resentful internal huff.

"Okay, moving on, if that's Rule 1, what is Rule two?" Mycroft asks, his legs crossing and his hands resting gently upon them, like the last few minutes of Sherlock almost finding them didn't happen. John sees no reason not to continue, even though he wishes their chat would end.

"Rule 2," John snorts, "is always have a pair of headphones ready."

Mycroft's look of confusion is priceless, and John doesn't speak until the politician is forced to ask a, "Why?"

"An aspect of my ability is hearing people's thoughts all the time, 24 hours a day. The first layer, where their thoughts are incoherent, they are also nondescript, jumbled. A white noise if you will." John states, "Music blocks it out, hence 'always have a pair of headphones'."

"Can you hear it right now?" Mycroft asks, drumming his fingers on his knee in thought.

"Off and on, depending on where we are at in the city." John answers, leaning back into the seat.

"Why would that matter?" Mycroft questions, leaning forward, his interest peaked again. The doctor can't help but notice the familiarities between the two brothers, they are reacting in almost the same way, all the way down to their body language.

"When I'm within a certain range of Sherlock, the white noise disappears." John answers, not really wanted to divulge the information, but he might as well keep going. "The range gets greater each day."

"Is that why you are with him?" The question is blurted and Mycroft remains neutral.

"No. Definitely not." John cries, taken aback, moderately offended at Mycroft's question. John cross his arms again and looks out the window, disgusted with the elder brother.

"Then why are you?" Mycroft asks, his tone irreproachable.

John gapes and then shakes his head, sending a wave of annoyance into Sherlock, if John is going to have to suffer through this bizarre brotherly ritual, Sherlock will be forced to experience it too, but the detective remains silent and even that vexes the doctor who has to go through this alone.

"I'm not going there with you Mycroft, that's between Sherlock and myself and there are certain things that the British Government does not need to know." John states firmly, his body dismissive.

They sit in silence, Mycroft staring with gleaming eyes and scrutinising gazes. John vaguely realises the car slowing down as the buildings of London grow taller in height.

"Rule 3?" Mycroft prods after a while and John sighs, once again.

"I don't pry into peoples' mind, ever, unless it involves Rule 1 or self-preservation." John says flatly, not looking at the politician. "I guess I should add, 'Unless within the parameters of a harmless experiment." John pronounces, knowing full well that this rule has been broken several times during experiments.

_"Rules are meant to be amended to."_ John tells himself guiltily, trying to reason the clear breaking of his own rule.

"Experiments?" Mycroft inquires gleefully and John nods timidly. "Show me." The politician commands.

"What?" John gawks.

"Show me, I want to know what the man in the blue jumper is thinking." Mycroft says pointing out the window. John turns his head stupidly and notices the car has stopped, adjacent to a very green park. The man in question, sits upon a bench watching the playground with idle interest, his body somewhat tense.

"Mycroft, I just told you my rule." John exhales, looking between the man on the bench and the austere politician in front of him.

"I want a demonstration, Doctor." Mycroft demands firmly.

"I don't give _demonstrations._" John replies snidely. There is no way he is going to probe that man's mind. He doesn't know that man, the man has done nothing to John and if anything, going over the doctor's rules has made John more adamant in following them. It is, as they continue down the list, becoming more and more apparent to the doctor that he hasn't thought about the rules in depth for a really long time, and that could be potentially disastrous. As for right now, it only adds to his insistent determination.

"Think of it as an experiment." The doctor and the politician stare at each other for a long time.

"John, if you want me to help you, I need to know what you can do." Mycroft sighs eventually, his face attempting to soften, but John sees the cold calculations behind the elder Holmes's features.

"Help me? Why would I ever need your help?" John asks incredulous, staring at the politician, mimicking the same cold gaze.

"John, I can be your biggest asset, and not to mention without it, you and Sherlock could get into danger one day and I could be mysteriously busy." Mycroft states, his eyes darting lazily, as if the conversation is boring him.

John gawks in bewilderment, his mouth widening and his thoughts running wild.

"Are you seriously manipulating me?" The doctor asks incredulously.

"Is it working?" Mycroft's eyebrow raises and his voice hitches at the end of his question.

"You are so much like your brother." John huffs, chuckling softly.

"I don't take kindly to insults John." The elder Holmes says, rather petulantly and John snorts, the politician's expression only furthering John's statement. "The man in the blue jumper if you please, John." Mycroft adds, displeased.

"Mycroft, this goes against everything I've taught myself to believe in and uphold." John tries to explain, futilely to man who rarely shows compassion.

"That's very noble of you, doctor but I need to see this." Mycroft huffs, the politician becoming slightly annoyed.

"Why?" John asks, flustered.

"I have my reasons." Mycroft adds vaguely. John stares with exasperation. _"Why would Mycroft do this?"_

"I'm not going to uproot everything that I hold sacred just because you 'have your reasons'." John states angrily, wringing his hands together and his body straightens with anxiety. If there's ever been a moment when John wanted to punch something, it would be this moment and Mycroft's face would be the target.

"I will not explain this to you doctor, either use this gift or commit Sherlock to a life without his brother, his very powerful, very caring brother who is most valuable in your cases." Mycroft states, ultimatum clear.

For a second, John thinks about just getting out of the car, making his life Mycroft-free. It's very tempting, but then he remembers all the times that Mycroft has been there, helping in the shadows, the overlying power resource that has gotten them out of trouble, gotten Sherlock out of trouble.

As much as John doesn't want to admit it, Mycroft is more of a necessity than, John or his detective would have ever thought. So, John releases his anger and tries to calm himself. He basks in Sherlock's silence but comforting lilac/honey for help and it works, soon John is calmer.

But that doesn't mean he is acquiescence, he only obeys Mycroft for the sake of the what if, What if one day Sherlock is in trouble and Mycroft is the only one to help?

"Fine, what do you want to know?" John mutters begrudgingly, his body still tense but the angry shaking has since stopped.

"Everything, What is the man thinking right now?" Mycroft commands with an icy glower. "_What is he so cold about? I just agreed to break my rule for no reasons whatsoever._" John thinks to himself, with a bitter rage that the telepath once again has to calm himself down from.

Eventually, John, with hesitance and resentment, find the man's senses. The smell of bacon floats through John's mind as coffee sits upon his mental taste buds. The doctor delves deeper and finds the man's thoughts.

Images of a little boy fill John's mind and the doctor automatically notices the same boy on the swings. "He's thinking about his boy, he isn't suppose to be watching him today but his ex-wife is having her baby. The little boy has blond hair, brown eyes, a bit of freckles on his cheeks. He's over by the swings." John mutters absentmindedly.

"A little more if you please, John." Mycroft states and John huffs, suddenly very annoyed that Sherlock has left him alone in this situation, the least the detective could do is keep his thoughts off mute. John focuses, the thoughts are of the boy, nothing else.

"There's nothing, that's it." John tells Mycroft who doesn't move.

"Try. Harder." Mycroft demands, shooting icy daggers at the doctor.

John resist the urge to crumple under the gaze, John straightens his body and attempts to find something to please Mycroft.

_"Too bad Sherlock isn't here, he would have an experiment that could give Mycroft what he wants." _John thinks acidly and sends another wave of irritation to the detective for good measure.

Experiment? The word gets John thinking.

The doctor doesn't know why he did it, he should be under every sense of restriction, limitation. Especially if Mycroft is doing the commanding, but John suddenly feels the necessity to test a theory, an experiment. Very subtly, John sends a wave of very light and fluffy calmness into the man, trying to coax out memories associated with the emotion. John witnesses the man relax and his mind brings memories to the forefront. The experiment is a success but John doesn't feel victorious like he usually does, he feels kind of dirty and he contemplates making stuff up and feeding it to Mycroft, just get on with the chat, and not break his rule.

"John, what else is there?" The demanding and threatening voice getting slightly tiresome, but John decides to placate the politician, even though Mycroft doesn't deserve it. The doctor sends different feelings to coax different memories. John sends anxiety into the man and quickly the man reacts, sitting up straight and looking around. Images of a desk, blue-sleeved hands fly around, organising the pencils and papers, the memories flashing through John like a movie and the doctor watches as the memories play out.

"He's at work, it is earlier today based on the jumper he's wearing, his desk is clean but it's full of papers, I can't read them." John recites, closing his eyes to focus.

"Go on," Mycroft encourages, and if John had his eyes open, he would have seen Mycroft lean so far forward in interest that any movement would send the politician to the floor of the backseat.

"He's nervous, looking over his shoulder constantly," John continues, "He is turning on his computer, a CD case in his hand. He's looking at it, he's very fidgety. Someone coughs from behind and the man turns, he leaves the computer and puts the disc in his pocket while grabbing his coat." John finishes, he can't take anymore. As the images continued, the man's anxiety level grows and it is becoming painful for the doctor, and John can't even imagine what the jumper-clad man is feeling. Besides, John knows an attack in the making and if the doctor continues, soon his nose will be bloody and his brain will short with pain and blackouts.

Plus, isn't this what he feared, using his gift to hurt people. Mycroft has brought one of John's worst fears into light. The future is so much closer than the doctor would have ever thought.

John, guiltily, sends a feeling of calm and backs out of the man's brain enthusiastically.

He opens his eyes to see Mycroft texting on his mobile. John becomes annoyed that Mycroft asked for a _demonstration_ just to ignore it.

John leans back into the leather seat, crossing his arms with irritation. _"Why would Mycroft ask for a demonstration to just text on his mobile the entire time?"_ John ask himself, feeling something strange is going on.

A sudden thought hits the telepath.

"Who is that man? What do you want with him?" John asks, his eyes narrowing.

"I'm afraid," Mycroft starts, looking up from his mobile into the angry doctor's eyes, "it's classified."

John's mind explodes and he sends thoughts of anger into Sherlock subconsciously.

"Classified?" John seethes, "Are you bloody kidding me?"

"You were very helpful, John." Mycroft says and the car lurches forward, starting their trek around London again. John can't even see straight.

"You used me." A statement, a fact, a very troubling and angering one. John looks back out the window to the fading playground, just as they turn the corner, soldier sees suited agents converging upon the grassy area, headed right for the man.

John almost shatters in guilt. Not only did Mycroft use him, but that man is now under the arrest of the British Government and Mycroft himself.

"I'm sorry John, it was my last resort, the man has been...elusive. We haven't been able to get him." Mycroft deadpans and John seethes. Anger at being manipulated once again.

"He had a kid, Mycroft." John states, pinching the bridge of his nose, a normal, very stressed related headache forming, probably just to add to John's anger.

"And what is on that CD will put many more kids at risk." Mycroft bites back with a uncharacteristic sneer.

John stares agape at the man, at the underlying compassionate thought or at the fact that Mycroft snapped at him, John doesn't know.

_"A HA!"_ Sherlock's thoughts scream suddenly and John winces slightly but quickly regains his anger and fury, whilst he sends a wave of confusion to the detective.

Before John can yell appropriately at the politician, the shrill of Mycroft's mobile interrupts the doctor. The elder Holmes digs his phone out once again and answers the call.

John watches, seething silently, as Mycroft barely has a conversation.

"Holmes." Mycroft answers and listens silently.

"Yes sir." Mycroft says mere thirty seconds later and hangs up the mobile. Once the call disconnects, Mycroft sends out a text message and then pockets his mobile and gives John his attention.

The doctor glares in disgust, all sense of compliance gone, regardless of the elder Holmes's threats of never helping the detective ever again, John is not some puppet for Mycroft.

"I'm afraid we are going to have to cut this chat sort, John." Mycroft says matter of fact and John is surprised, he half expected the politician to talk some bollocks about how John help is for the greater good, trying to get John to see the politician's side of things.

Mycroft doesn't even bother, knowing full well that John's mind is going to change and the doctor feels strongly about it.

And yet, Mycroft put John in the situation in the first place. This thought fuels John's disgust and the doctor spends the rest of the car ride in silence, not even looking at the elder Holmes, staring out the window as the streets become more and more familiar as they get closer to Baker Street.

"John-" Mycroft starts finally, as the car pulls onto Baker Street.

"I'm not doing that again Mycroft. I'm not some government pet that bends to your every whim and spies on people. Even if it is for the greater good." John doesn't shout, but his tone is angry and firm.

"I'm sorry to hear that John, you have proven to be very beneficial." Mycroft states as John begins gripping for the door handle as the sedan stops outside 221B.

"Mycroft!" John hisses.

_"John."_

"Very well, This is a one time thing then." Mycroft offers, his face finally showing a sign of accommodation and if John wasn't so hell bent on getting out the car and away from the aggravating politician and the aggravating day, the doctor would have commented on it. Instead, John bolts from the car and heads towards the flat door.

The whir of the car window descending makes John stop and turn around slowly.

Another thought comes to John. Mycroft is strangely accepting now, what is different?

"You were never going to keep your..services from Sherlock, were you?" John asks, looking at Mycroft through the window, he sighs in resignation.

"Of course not, I'm afraid I lied," Mycroft pronounces, "A calculated guess that you needed motivation, John." On a normal day, John would have huffed in anger, or stomped his foot, the doctor might have even yelled insults and obscenities. This, however, isn't a normal day. Acid experiments to kidnappings to being coerced into demonstrating his gift, the most personal thing John has, being forced onto an unsuspecting man to being dropped off at his flat like nothing happened. This is definitely not a normal day by any means. So for the sake of John's sanity he does nothing.

"Oh and John I will be wanting to hear about the rest of your rules. If I knew them, maybe I wouldn't break them...accidentally." Mycroft smirks, the first sign of true danger that John has ever seen in the elder Holmes.

_"The bollocks of this man."_ John hears the whir of the window again and turns just in time to see the sedan driving away, the sound of the engine startling John.

John breathes deep in relief, almost collapsing from the suddenness of the emotions, as the sedan drives down the street and turns the corner, disappearing from John's view.

John doesn't know if he can survive another chat.


	20. The Yarders

Shout out to **sentaria** and** Tipear** for their help in this chapter, it is greatly appreciated.

Well, I have the next two chapters planned after this but then I'm not sure how I'm going to bring Moriarty back, if their are suggestions I would love to hear them

This chapter was soooo much fun to write, especially now that Sherlock and John are getting like hardcore into John's gift.

Ugh, My favorite.

I love you guys for the reviews, they are just soo yummy.

Okay, enough gushing and appreciation author notes.

On with the story.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>John continues to stare in relief, long after Mycroft's car is gone, the cool London air wrapping around the doctor, his head whirling with thoughts and his anger still making his body tense.<p>

Thin arms are suddenly around John, pulling the doctor back into the flat and embracing John simultaneously.

John looks around and notices that he is in the entryway of 221, Sherlock's arms still wrapped around him.

Abruptly, John pushes himself out of the embrace and turns to face the genius.

Sherlock's face is soft and welcoming, relief evident too.

John punches Sherlock in the detective's his good shoulder, forcefully.

"What was that for?" Sherlock ask bewildered, rubbing his shoulder thoughtfully, whilst staring at the doctor.

"You left me alone, to deal with your brother." John spits angrily. Sherlock's face looks amused but his tone is serious.

"I'm sorry, I didn't really think about it. I was trying to get you away from him. Excuse me!" Sherlock huffs, turning and walking up the stairs, his face showing a twinge of hurt and disparage.

"Sherlock, wait." John calls, and follows the detective up the steps and into the flat, John realising that his anger is misplaced. John catches up with the detective in the sitting room, Sherlock keeps walking through, bypassing the settee and the chairs and moving right into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," John calls, "you're right, I'm not angry with you." John says desperately, following Sherlock into the kitchen, the detective flipping on the kettle, foreshadow John's own actions.

"I know." Sherlock resigns leaning against the counter, letting his head fall. John crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around the detective, who reciprocates, completing the embrace.

"Thank you, I couldn't bare to be in that car any longer." John remarks quietly, "I'm very angry with your brother." John appends, nuzzling his head into Sherlock's broad chest.

_"That makes two of us."_ Sherlock is bitter, hopelessly so and John can't blame him, the doctor is feeling the same and much more.

"How did you save me?" John inquires, once the tension from the previous moment is gone and they are both relaxing in each others arms.

"I know a duchess who owned me a favor. I just had Mycroft's boss beckon him." Sherlock deadpans and John is impressed, wholeheartedly so, in fact, it leaves the doctor speechless for a second.

"A duchess?" John finally gasps out. Sherlock lifts a hand and grips John's cheek, the link instantaneous. The detective wastes no time in bringing a memory, the two of them giggling at a crime scene together, the memories exude happiness. A yes.

John smiles and leans into the touch before Sherlock leans down and kisses the doctor, all thoughts going silent, but John pushes appreciation and euphoria into the detective.

_"Your welcome, John but stop cheating."_ John chortles and quiets his emotions, letting the kiss be the one in charge of the emotions surging between them.

Finally they break the kiss, the kettle screaming it's shrill song, laughing John pushes away and goes about making his much deserved tea.

Meanwhile, Sherlock moves into the sitting room, plopping himself upon the settee, waiting for John.

"Motion sickness." Sherlock states randomly.

"What?" John says, walking into the room, already sipping his hot tea, burning his tug in the doctor's earnest.

"For next time, send motion sickness. If you are stuck in something that travels, get sick." John chuckles at the thought and sends a wave into Sherlock.

"Stop that, not now." Sherlock cries and puts a hand up in surrender, John gets rid of the emotion and sits beside the detective on the couch, curling himself into the younger Holmes.

"Sherlock, I hope to god there isn't a next time." John exclaims, "I don't think I could resist killing your brother."

_"That makes two of us."_ Both of them look at each other and burst out laughing.

* * *

><p>For months, nothing happens, Mycroft has become busy with one thing or another and John has finally forgiven the politician. Not before several screaming matches between the two of them and occasionally even between Sherlock, John and the politician.<p>

No, now John and Mycroft are on decent terms but that doesn't mean John wants a solitary visit with the politician anytime soon, most definitely not.

Not even Moriarty has surfaced again, Sherlock, and John too, are sitting on edge. The doctor and his detective knowing that something big is coming.

Despite that all, John and Sherlock have continued life as normal. They've even grown closer because of the whole Mycroft ordeal, taking experiments farther and their code has become more in depth.

Sometimes, John would come home from the surgery and Sherlock will have another emotional code that the two of them would sit for the rest of the night learning and mastering, making it ready and applicable to real life situations. It reminds the ex-soldier of battle plans. Going over the maps and orders multiple times so that one is prepared for the actual fight.

With each new emotional code, their ritual is the same, they spend time mastering it between them, John sending the code and Sherlock interpreting it right so he can almost effectively read John's mind.

There is only one emotional code they haven't done this to, and that's the one they've label as "Mycroft."

They both happily agreed that Mycroft emotional code is annoying irritation. It was an easy decision really and hardly needed any practice.

In all honesty, John should really thank the politician, without Mycroft blatant interference, Sherlock and John wouldn't have realised the importance of an accurate and detailed emotional code and they wouldn't be this far along.

Now, John can push emotions with twinges of other emotions to convey something more detailed. For example, the doctor would push thoughts of happiness for yes with twists of other emotions to convey more to the yes. Like if Sherlock asks John to buy more milk while the older man is out shopping, the doctor would reply with happiness but add a twist of resentment that says, _"Just this once,"_ or _"Fine, but you owe me."_

Not that John encourages Sherlock to push thoughts to convey his personal shopping list, that would anger John greatly.

Mostly this aspect comes in handy with annoying Mycroft to the extent that he doesn't stay long when he comes around the flat, because the two of them don't talk out loud in front of them, there isn't a need.

Other than that, the doctor has learned, thanks to the detective's help, how to control the pushing of the emotions. John now knows how much pressure to add to an emotion in order to cause sleep or in a few cases a slight coma. John has put Sherlock into a coma twice, it wasn't the doctor's fault the first time, they were experimenting and the ex-soldier didn't know the line/boundary then. Sherlock slept briefly before John found him in his mind palace and tore him out of the coma.

The second time, however, may have been a little bit more malicious. Sherlock, on a case binge, hadn't sleep for days and the detective's mood was worsening. It really was an accident even though the intent a little premeditated, John really was just trying to calm the detective down enough where Sherlock could find some hours of slumber. John thought he pulled out quick enough but it wasn't until Sherlock had slept for twelve hours straight before John realised he was probably in a coma. John contemplated pulling the detective out then, but instead, based on the genius's exhaustion, let Sherlock go for another ten hours.

Sherlock was pissed when John finally enter the corporeal throne room and grabbed the genius.

however, John was forgive quickly when, after overcoming his sleepiness, Sherlock was able to communicate that he had solved the case in his mind palace, thanks to the doctor.

From then on, John was a lot more cautious and now he knows the line with a very distinctive clarity. He knows how to calm someone very deeply so they enter sleep themselves and he knows how to instill a coma, but most importantly, he knows where the line starts and stops.

His gift is getting very powerful and the thought scares John. The doctor wonders idly a lot about what would happen if he took a negative emotion and pushed someone to the same line he can produces comas at. What would happened if he pushed someone to such fury? What kind of violence would happen?

Sherlock, of course wants to test it. John adamantly refuses and eventually adds it as a another rule, which causes Sherlock to drop the subject. John also added a rule about the effects of calming people into comas.

(Rule #11; Creating comas are purely for self-preservation, not harm. Rule#12, pushing negative emotions upon someone is strictly prohibited.)

The past months have been good to the doctor and his detective, John's gift just keep growing and growing and Sherlock is supportive, well as supportive as a Holmes can be, but mostly Sherlock just revels in the fact that he rarely has to speak out loud.

In fact, John and the genius have gotten so good at their emotional code that between the detective asking questions and John answering with emotions, the two of them can have a conversation without speaking.

Kind of a scary thought.

John and Sherlock where in the middle of such a conversation when they enter Scotland Yard, finding a cold case for Sherlock who is steadily driving John crazy with all of his thoughts proclaiming boredom every five seconds.

It is between a cold case or cold blooded murder.

_"What if they are boring?"_

John raises an eyebrow and sends a bout of unhappiness and irritation. _"You know that's not true, you'll solve them all. Don't be difficult."_

_"John,"_ Sherlock's voice whines.

John shakes his head and sends another bout of sadness and then a twinge of defiance. _"No, shut up, we are doing this."_

John picks up his pace, putting himself in front of Sherlock, wanting to get to the DI's office ahead of Sherlock to prove a point.

The detective huffs, but follows close behind.

John raises his hand to knock on Lestrade door but before his knuckles hit the frame, Sherlock's hand is around the knob and forcing his way into the DI's office without warning.

John sends a ripple of disgust and frustration._ "You could knock, this is rude."_

Sherlock ignores the doctor and enters the office with an exasperated yell from Lestrade.

"Calm down, Lestrade, I'm here to help you with your cold cases." Sherlock says disinterestedly, plopping himself dramatically into a chair opposite the older man's desk, letting his arms cross petulantly. _"And it's practically against my own will, by the way."_

John chuckles out loud at Sherlock's thought. The doctor transmits suspicion, arrogance and smugness to Sherlock. "_You are such a liar, you've been dying for something stimulating for days."_

_"Yeah, but not boring cold cases, John._" The detective looks at John quickly with a scoff before turning back to the DI, whipping out his mobile in the process.

"Good Morning Lestrade," John says pleasantly, walking towards the DI and shaking his hand. "Sorry about him," John says pointing a finger at the now texting detective.

"Don't worry, I'm use to it." Lestrade replies sending a quick glance in Sherlock's direction.

"Yeah," John starts and then whispers, "this is why we can't have nice things." Lestrade erupts in laughter and John follows.

_"Are the two of you going to just stand there making fun of me or are we actually going to solve some murders."_ John casts a sideways glance to Sherlock, who hasn't moved, not even his head.

John directs smugness and suspicion to the genius. _"So you **do** want cases?"_

_"Shut up John."_ John chuckles again before bringing his full attention back to the DI who didn't notice a thing in his laughing fit.

"So, Greg, how's Mycroft?" The DI wipes tears from his eyes and proceeds sits down behind his desk, gesturing for the doctor to take a seat too. John complies and crosses his legs comfortably.

_"What are you doing? Are you making small talk on purpose?"_

The doctor pointedly ignores the detective and gazes at Lestrade with an acute listening pose.

"We are good, very good. You two on good terms again?" Lestrade asks nonchalantly. The Inspector doesn't know the full details of the tiff between the three of them and that's on purpose but the DI isn't a complete idiot, somethings can't go unnoticed.

"Yes, we are okay. Until he tries to manipulate me again." John remarks honestly, Lestrade doesn't take offense and chuckles in agreement.

"I don't even want to know what it would feel like working underneath him. He would be a scary boss." Lestrade states conversationally, a little chuckle in his voice.

_"I'm sure that's not true, I'm pretty sure that Lestrade loves working **underneath him.**"_

John almost lurches forward and has to hold in the exasperated snort at Sherlock's uncharacteristic lewd comment.

A stream of shocked bewilderment with a twist of bashfulness are sent forcibly, _"I can't believe you just said that. That's gross. That's your brother."_

John sees the near invisible shrug in Sherlock's shoulders as the detective focus, once again, on his mobile.

"I can't imagine," John tries to respond but it comes out slightly weak and John hopes his cheeks don't flush with embarrassment.

Gratefully, Sherlock decides to finally speak, out loud this time.

"Bored. DO you have a case or don't you?" Sherlock demands grumpily.

Lestrade raises and eyebrow at John and the doctor just returns it with a slight shake of the head.

A knock echoes the room suddenly, both John and Lestrade look towards the open door.

_"Donovan."_

"Hello Donovan." John calls to the open door, sensing her mind before actually seeing the Sargent.

"Come in, Sally." Lestrade says and the woman enters the room hesitant. In her hands she grips a cold case box with a file on top.

"Anderson's on his way up too," Donovan states, walking through the doorway, into the office, the box bulky but manageable.

_"Fantastic,"_ John thinks bitterly and looks over to the detective who is just staring at Donovan, his deduction face overtaking his features.

With a dramatic whip of his coat, the genius is up and over to Sally before she even makes it fully into the office.

Sherlock rips the folder off the top of the box and moves to opens it up.

A spurt of displeasure, irritation and forlorn is thrown at Sherlock. _"Stop being moody. Bit not good."_

Sherlock looks between the doctor, seeing John's expression, and back to Sally. The detective doesn't say anything, but his face softens in her general direction and his movements are less jerky as he sits back down into his chair, silently.

That's the best John is going to get, and he better well appreciated.

Sally and the DI just stare at the exchange, like Sherlock turned into an alien right in front of their eyes.

Sally walks further into the room and sets the box upon Lestrade's desk and then she moves off to the side, leaning against the wall, her eyes staring at the freak opposite.

_"John, look at these."_ Sherlock peers into the file and John stands up, walks over and observes the file over Sherlock's shoulder, the doctor ignores the quizzical looks coming from the Inspector and his Sargent.

The file hosts pictures of the crime scene along with eye-witness accounts, along with information on the victim.

One, Christine Ward, journalist at a controversial newspaper company, she was bludgeoned to death. The autopsy showed no other wounds and the evidence was washed away in the afternoon rain that had occurred earlier in the day. John takes the picture of Ward's mangled body and holds it up to his face.

"Her name is Christine Ward." Lestrade says, oblivious to the fact that John and Sherlock already have this information.

"Yes, yes, Lestrade, we can read, now kindly shut up." Sherlock huffs and John clears his throat, loudly. The detective looks up at him and John shoots him a look, that look. The 'bit not good' look. Not to mention the same disgruntled forlorn floats into Sherlock's brain at the same time.

"Fine, be quiet, _please_." Sherlock says looking at Lestrade who stares in shock and John nods appreciatively.

John turns to look back at the picture again but Sherlock's thoughts interrupt him.

_"Oh, fantastic, Anderson is here."_ Sure enough, John can sense Anderson's mind coming closer.

John sends a wave of calm and pride. _"Please be nice."_

_"No promises."_ John sighs.

"Anderson," Sally says as soon as the forensic tech gets within vision.

"Freak, I see you've got the Ward case. Tricky one that is." Anderson states,

_"His mere presence is lowering IQ, John." _The detective whines.

John reiterates by sending calm and pride, he adds a bit of pleading into the mix. "_Please, be nice."_

"There was no evidence, I still think it was one of the people she wrote a story about. Journalism can be brutal." Anderson states conversationally.

_"Nice."_

"Fine," Sherlock mutters out and rolls his eyes, "You are wrong, again, it's not a subject of one of her articles, the crime is hesitant, an accident, it's in a bright part of town. If it was someone from her articles they wouldn't be hesitant nor would they be in an area so public, alleyways would be there thing, they would have had a plan. No, she was meeting someone and that's when they killed her. Honestly, Anderson it's not hard if you actually open your eyes." Sherlock states. It's not as harsh as he could have been but it's not exactly nice.

John sends a wave of disappointment.

_"What? That was nice."_ Sherlock huffs indignantly. John just turns back to the picture, examining the bruises.

_"Blunt force trauma?"_ Sherlock questions after a few minutes, John sends a wave of happiness but then adds on confusion.

_"Yes, but there are bruises on her hands."_ John puts the picture in front of the detective's face, pointing to the areas of the body that indicate the starting of bruises, the traces of the first stage are almost invisible to John and they would be completely transparent to the untrained eye.

_"Autopsy said that there were no other markings of wounds, just the fatal blow."_

Another stream of confusion and then a twist of curiosity. _"Why would the pathologist lie?"_

_"Corrupted forensics?"_ Sherlock is on the same thought line as the doctor.

John sends caution and then happiness. _"Probably."_

John brushes a hand across Sherlock's as he pretend to reach for another picture. Really, he is watching Sherlock's images as they run rampant trying to deduce.

The connection last a second but John already has an idea of where the detective is going with this case. When the doctor pulls his hand away, he stares absentmindedly at another picture, this one of her wedding ring.

_"The pathologist, the man who did her autopsy, he was her lover, secret of course. Boring."_

John sends shock and pride. _"Really?"_

_"Positive."_

John sends excitement with a mix of smug pride. _"All right, let them have it."_

"It was the forensic pathologist." Sherlock smirks, folding up the file and slapping it on Lestrade's desk.

"What?" Anderson blurts out. "It can't be, Miller is a good man."

"Is that man also not working here anymore, maybe perhaps moved to the continent?" Sherlock questions innocently.

"Well...yes...but he has family there." Anderson blabbers stupidly.

Sherlock scoffs and opens his mouth to say something. John sends a wave of caution and the detective closes his mouth. _"Nice."_

"Sherlock," Lestrade says pinching the bridge of his nose. "How can you possibly know that?"

"After all of this time Lestrade, you still ask me that question." Sherlock states sadly. "The rings, look at the rings first, I always do."

"She was having an affair, what is it with the victims of London and their affairs?" Sherlock questions out loud and John chuckles.

"Okay, but that doesn't explain why the Yard's forensic pathologist is the lover." Sally intercedes, her smile smug.

"Oh Sally," Sherlock starts looking over at her, "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"John pointed out to me that the victim had the start of various bruises all over her body, her arms and legs. They are defensive bruises and based on the hand width and the height of the ones on her chest, you are looking for a man approximately 1.8 m in height, with a hand width of about 180mm give or take. I bet if you looked Miller's employment file you would find that these parameters match perfectly."

"Yeah, but so does half of Europe!" Anderson exclaims.

"Yes," Sherlock starts, really trying to hold in his sneer and he fails, "but half of Europe doesn't have access to autopsies reports, let alone the means and knowledge to pull off a murder _and _get away with it." Sherlock is standing now, his full height straight and his stance ready, intimidating the forensic tech.

John puts a hand on Sherlock's back and directs caution and a bit of calm into the detective's mind. Sherlock's body relaxes, not visibly, not enough for any of the Yarders to notice.

"This is all circumstantial." Donovan states, throwing her hands up in the air, and Lestrade nods slowly in agreement.

"She has a datebook," Sherlock inquiries. John raises his eyebrows, rushing confusion and wonder into the genius.

_"Oh come now, John. What successful woman in London doesn't have a datebook? Common sense." _Sherlock scoffs petulantly and John lowers his head, trying to hide a smile

John eyes the box and Sally opens the lid, pulling out a dusty, evidence bag-wrapped diary, she hands it to John who opens the bag carefully and pulls the diary out, handing it to Sherlock.

The genius flips through the date book, muttering to himself. John sees the pages fly by in rapid motion as Sherlock catalogs the addresses and lunch dates. The detective stops thumbing through the pages, staring at a single page in front of him.

"There." Sherlock says slamming the book on the table. All of the occupants of the office loom over the blank page.

"It's blank?" Anderson says and John scans the page and notices it right away.

"It's not blank, there are initials and some numbers next to it at the bottom. E.M." John talks before Sherlock took the brief silence to jump on Anderson idiocy.

_"What an idiot." _Sherlock rolls his eyes again.

John sends a stream of amusement and agreement. "_I totally agree."_

"Ed Miller." Sally says quietly and Anderson glares at her for speaking the name._  
><em>

"So what are the numbers?" Lestrade asks.

_"Book code."_

"It's a book code," John say out loud, at the same time Sherlock thought it. John has seen a book code before and he recognises it, plus what else could it be, really.

Sherlock stares at him impressed, John smiles sheepishly back, whilst sending a rush of smug confidence. _"That's right, I know things."_

The detective chuckles and peers into the box, his hand disappearing as the genius digs for something inside.

"Great, how do we find out which book it is?" Lestrade says, moving away from the date book and sliding into his office chair, irritated.

A slam catches the attention of the Yarders plus John. A very worn, old copy of Jane Eyre lays a top Lestrade's messy desk.

"This is the book." Sherlock states.

"How can you be sure?" Anderson questions, the man is even getting on the doctor's nerves.

"It's obvious, this book is her most prized possession, it's worn but it's a first edition, it's been read over and over again but it's be taken care of, the binding has been replaced more than once." Sherlock states, thumbing and examining the book with care before flipping open and following the code.

John reads the detective's mind but looks over the genius's shoulder for pretenses.

The first bracket of numbers find the word Edward. "Edward," John states, scribbling down the word on a scrap piece of paper.

The next, Sherlock thumbs through and finds the world Miller. "Miller," John adds to the paper.

The next bracket is the word zero. "The number zero," a scribble.

The next, two, "The number two," John states,

The next is another zero. "Another zero,"

The doctor and his detective continue the pattern as the code goes on to reveal a whole blower number, that John hypothesises is associated with the Yard.

"Do I need to explain it anymore?" Sherlock asks, flinging the book onto the desk with ease, The Yarders stare in shock at the sight, completely unbelieving at the bombshell. Not only did the genius figure out the cold case but he pointed the finger and found evidence to back it up, at one of the Yard's respected employees, even a friend to three/fifths of the people in the room.

"This was all terribly fun but I'm bored." and with that the detective stands up straight and walks out of the office with a smug smile and a _"Come along, John."_

* * *

><p>"What in the bloody hell was that, John?" Lestrade exasperates, John looks at the DI who stares at him, along with Anderson and Donovan who gaze in bewilderment.<p>

"Brilliant, right?" John asks, moving to the office door, following Sherlock's exit, in a less dramatic fashion of course.

"No, not that, that's usual." Sally states, "The freak is always like that." John holds his tongue, he doesn't want to snap at Donovan but he will if she keeps calling Sherlock a freak.

"I'm talking about how the both of you just solved that case together without talking." Lestrade's face is red with confusion.

Uh-oh, the conversations are so mainstream and normal that sometimes the doctor forgets they aren't speaking aloud, a rookie mistake.

"Sherlock is teaching me how to read...expressions, the way he does." John lies nonchalantly, shrugging to add conviction. The three Yarders stare, their mouths agape.

"You are turning into him?" Greg inquires.

"No, no, I'm just learning a few things, it was our test run." John adds, piling on the lies and Greg seems to relax.

"Good, for a second I thought..." The DI starts.

"Thought what?" John questions, timidly, not sure he he wants to know.

"That he could read your mind or something." John laughs, Oh Lestrade, you couldn't be anymore backwards.

"A telepath? Pssh, that's a bit cliche, don't you think?" John snickers looking around the room at the faces. Sally and Anderson join in with a chuckle while Lestrade just smirks.

"It would explain a lot, plus I don't know what to think about Sherlock anymore." The DI states, grinning.

"Neither do I Greg, neither do I." and with that John shakes the DI's hand and follows the detective out, sending waves of relief and irritation to the detective.

That was too close, way too close.

* * *

><p>"So how do you think will they find him?" John asks the detective once the doctor catches up with him, now they are both standing outside of Scotland Yard trying to hail a cab.<p>

_"They won't find him, John."_

The doctor sends confusion, _"Why not?"_

_"If they prove that he is the murderer, think of all the cases he worked on, ones where he was truthful." _

John sends understanding, _"Every case the man ever worked on would have to be re-opened and maybe even go through court again."_

_"Hours and hours of man power and money the NSY doesn't have."_ John smiles sadly, the fact that a killer can go free is not exactly reassuring.

_"It's for the best though,"_ Sherlock thoughts add. _"However, I do think that Mycroft might take care of it somehow, Greg might mention it when he is **underneath him**." _The genius smirks mildly.

John smacks Sherlock in his arm and stalks away, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Sherlock just laughs and catches John in an embrace.

"I'm very partial to the color of your cheek, Dr. Watson."

They forget about trying to hail and cab and instead, snog in front of NSY.

* * *

><p>For all you Mycroft Lovers, In the next chapter or so, the boys are going to get themselves into trouble and Mycroft is going to come to the rescue via, John's powers.<p>

Dun Dun Dun.

Also special thanks to two very awesome people, one **sentaria** for their brilliant contribution about the motion sickness, that was very creative.

And also to** Tipear,** they can up with the idea about the scene between the Yarders and oh my gosh was that fun to write.

I give my thanks and appreciation in hypothetical cookies.

Peace&Love

Sophie


	21. Do it

Okay, so I'm between the final meeting between Moriarty all about John or all about Sherlock.

With John, Tipear suggested that Moriarty kidnaps John out of boredom or curiosity and Sherlock finds him and they defeat Moriarty. (Or they push Moriarty out of the country so he can come back for a sequel?)

With Sherlock, Lisa suggested making it more about Sherlock and I was thinking about Sherlock getting kidnapped in a final battle of wits with Moriarty and John coming to save the day.

I can honestly see it going both ways. What do you guys think? Do you have any other suggestions.

Also, With this chapter, I realised that no one has been mortally wounded lately and I'm all one for injury h/c so here we go.

Reviews are mint. I love you guys for really taking the time to comment and give me ideas, it really helps.

Warning for language and violence, you've been warned.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>"Mycroft." Sherlock greets bitterly, turning his head towards the door. It's Saturday morning, and the two of them are case free. Sherlock just having taken down a brutal serial killer earlier yesterday afternoon and the both of them are now resting, much to the pleasure of John and his tea.<p>

Obviously, as it is with Fate, when Mycroft is involved, Saturdays are evidently not meant to restful for John.

The doctor tenses involuntarily as the politician enters the sitting room, his umbrella tuck against his side like usual.

The elder Holmes sits down on the settee wordlessly, his movements undemanding and non-threatening. John may be on good terms with Mycroft but it still angers the doctor at the man's audacity to barge into their flat unannounced.

Instead of voicing his anger, John plops down into his chair, next to the detective and opposite the politician, not really sure what to expect.

"John," Mycroft starts, looking toward the doctor, shifting uncomfortably, "I'm here to learn about the rest of your rules." The words come out in a whisper and John, for a second, doesn't realise that Mycroft even spoke.

"Mycroft." Sherlock speaks first with a hiss, his body no longer slouching. "No."

The politician sighs and squeezes his umbrella, his knuckles white. John just stares in shock.

"It won't be like last time, I promise." The politician remarks._ "Yeah right."_

John watches in silent contemplation.

"Mycroft, are you demanding or asking?" John asks, sending a wave of calm and smug confusion to Sherlock. _"Hold on, I want to see this."_

"John." If it was anyone but the elder Holmes, John could have sworn that Mycroft is whining.

_"This is a bad idea."_ Sherlock's thoughts are logical and cold.

John sends a wave of smug happiness. _"Yes, probably."_

John raises an eyebrow at the politician expectantly.

"Fine." The elder Holmes says a tad petulantly. "John, would you please tel me more about your...gift?" and John's pretty sure that Mycroft had to resist the urge to huff with annoyance and defeat.

John laughs, the elder Holmes scoffs and turns his head away from the two men in front of him.

"Well, since you asked so nicely." John says nonchalantly. Mycroft's head snaps back and looks at the doctor, a slight gleam in his eyes. The politician clears his throat and his face snaps back into his neutral cold gaze. John pretends not to notice the elder Holmes leaning forward in excitement.

Sherlock, however, notices too, and he will not let it idle. The detective scoffs in surprise and John is immediate in his actions. He sends defiance and disapproving disappointment, reaching across the gap between the chairs and placing a hand on the detective's bare arm. John reiterates his emotions of defiance, disapproving disappointment and adds a hint of reluctance. _"Be nice and shut up, I want to see this."_ By touching the detective, the emotions are more potent and Sherlock calms immediately, his body relaxing, his mind slowing very faintly, enough to let any jabs the detective might have, leave his mind.

The detective gapes at the doctor with an open mouth, his eyes pleading. The stormy gray dilate into the detective's adorable puppy-dogged state. John just shakes his head with a lot of self-control and force whilst he sends a defiant unhappiness. _"Definitely not."_

"Fine!" The detective huffs, slouching into his chair yanking his arm out of John's grip and crossing them in annoyance.

John chuckles rescinding his arm back towards his body.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and looks between the couple."You have tactile connections?" The politician asks, genuinely surprised.

"Yes." John responds sliding back into his chair comfortably.

What was that?" Mycroft asks, "When you touched Sherlock?"

"I calmed him down." John states nonchalantly.

"John, you never told me you could do that, let alone have tactile connections." Mycroft observes.

"Well, you never asked, and the last time we had this type of conversation you forced me into someone's mind for the purposes of the British Government. I wasn't very keen on informing you of the aspects of my gift." John snaps back bitterly. He looks at Mycroft, the politician cowers his head in shame. These emotions are are so foreign for John to see in a Holmes that John head is whirling with amazement.

"Aspects? As in plural?" Mycroft asks coldly, gaining his normal calculating attitude back after a few minutes.

"You have a lot to learn, brother." Sherlock states, chuckling, before standing up and moving to find his violin, or at least that what John sees in Sherlock's mind, beside the proclamations of boredom and annoyance.

John laughs, the elder Holmes scoffs.

"Start from the beginning." Mycroft asks politely and for a moment John actually trust the politician, the screaming matches that they've had for months, long forgotten and the politician actually curious and wanting to help.

So, John tells Mycroft everything. John shares the aspects of his gift, he reiterates the white noise and the actually mind reading and adds on the information about the tactile connections. The telepath even informs the elder Holmes about the senses of mental taste and smell that John gets when he probes minds. Mycroft is especially happy when John conveys that the politician's senses consist of chocolate and caramel, which just got an indignant huff from a surprisingly patient Sherlock who is cradling the violin but not playing it the entire time John and Mycroft chat.

The older man doesn't asks for any demonstrations this time, he just listens politely. John acquaints the politician with his ability to convey emotions which Mycroft remembers with all true familiarity.

John even tells Mycroft about the emotional code, exemplifying the basics. Happiness for yes and unhappiness for no and at Sherlock's mental insistence, John pushes irritation into the older Holmes's brain and then precedes to tell his brother cheekily that annoyance is the code for Mycroft. The politician didn't comment and instead ignore his brother and asked John for information about more of the code.

Which John reluctantly supplied, getting kind of uneasy about sharing something like this with another person that isn't Sherlock. The detective, however, is oddly encouraging, although John would call it more along the lines of bragging but if it makes the chat go faster and Sherlock is okay with his brother knowing, then, by all means, John is up for it, anything to get this conversation and any future ones over with.

Lastly, John finishes with the rest of the rules, explaining them as he did before and even telling Mycroft of the two new ones. John even starts with the two newest rules, the ones about negative emotions and the boundaries of his calming powers, because they are the most recent. After those, John informs the elder Holmes about his latex rule, doubling up on gloves he explains the reasons behind it how unprepared broken connections are painful. He then shares his rule about keeping the gift a secret, which is obvious to Mycroft. The last thing John shares is the limits of his gifts. The doctor explains about the nosebleeds and what happens if John over exerts himself.

John finishes with an exhausted smirk, they've been talking for the better part of three hours and most of it was John.

"Thank you John, I know that must have been difficult." Mycroft states standing up, getting ready to leave and John sends relief to Sherlock.

John stands up also to follow the man out politely.

"But," Mycroft starts once they reach the landing, John stiffens, his body tensing and some part of his brain telling him that he should have been prepared for this. The visit didn't result in a screaming match or fists, it is too good to be true. "You left out rule ten." Mycroft adds looking at the doctor expectantly.

John laughs, a long and hearty laugh that causes the attention of Sherlock to peek his head outside the sitting room door and gaze into the landing that Mycroft and John stand on.

"I want to know all the rules, John." Mycroft states with a soft demanding tone.

John snorts, "Yes, I'm aware, Mycroft." he sneers, "It's just that Rule #10 doesn't apply anymore."

Mycroft raises his eyebrow. "Rule 10 states that Sherlock must never find out."

* * *

><p><strong><em>A week or two passes...<em>**

"_We are really in trouble now."_ John thinks to himself as he watches one of the men smash his and Sherlock's mobile against the dirt ground. It now lays in a pile of bits and pieces, no use to anyone.

The doctor sends shame and anxiety into Sherlock. _"Shite."_ They are so screwed.

John knew they shouldn't have followed the gang into the industrial complex, he knew it was a bad idea, especially since they didn't tell anybody they were going.

But with a mental _"Come along, John." _The doctor would follow the detective into a volcano.

Except volcanoes would kill instantly, now they are deep within one of the warehouses, staring down the barrels of several guns, enticing a slow death in the face.

Five men, each armed with their own guns, stand in front of John and Sherlock. The doctor and his detective have been forced on their knees whilst another two men behind them retrain them with ropes. The soldier doesn't struggle, he listens to Sherlock's thoughts instead, following the detective's deductions as he tries to formulate a plan.

Sherlock's thoughts are a mess and show defeat. The detective sends a sideways glance towards the doctor after a few minutes. If his thoughts didn't express it, that look did. Sherlock Holmes does not know what to do.

They are completely and thoroughly outnumbered.

The leader steps forward and opens his mouth to talk.

_"Do it."_ Sherlock's thoughts command and John doesn't hesitate, he ignores the man starting to talk. Sherlock distracts the man whilst John opens connections around the area, finding each mind. He pauses for a second, thinking about the safest way to go about it so John doesn't have an attack.

The best way to do it would to be one at a time, calm each person to a certain point, enough for disorientation, one at a time, breaking and starting a new connection each time and then at the end, when they are all confused, make them sleep one by one again. By the time the last person succumbs to sleep, none of them would have known what hit them.

Easy enough.

As fate would have it, a sound beside the doctor suspends John's plan.

He snaps his head to the side to see the leader pushing his gun into Sherlock's neck. John's mind erupts in anger and targets the leader first. The man, a short, disgusting pudgy man straightens in confusion. John focuses slowly on him, his anger in control for a moment. The man's eyes go unfocused and John stops, he moves on to each of the other men, disorienting them.

A sudden pain in the back of John's head stops him. The force of it, knocking John forward so he face plants onto the ground, his body turning so he lands with his back to Sherlock.

"John!" Sherlock exclaims out loud and John tries to roll more onto his side, through the pain in his head, which he can already feel the blood starting to flow.

"Now I'm going to ask again." The doctor hears the short man say through gritted teeth. "Why does my head feel fuzzy? What kind of voodoo tricks are you playing on me? Do I need to beat it out of your partner here to get you to tell me Sherlock?"

John, through his pain sends a shaky wave of relief to the detective._ "Thank god they don't know."_

In the daze of pain, John wonders idly why everyone assumes it's Sherlock with the super powers.

Another sudden bursting pain finds John's side abruptly, tearing him out of his wondering. John looks down awkwardly, just in time to see the blade of a shimmering knife being pulled out of his right side. John just stares in shock and pain as one of the gang members backs up, the blood dripping from the blade.

_"John." _Sherlock's thoughts are worried and panicked.

Blood seeps out of the doctor's side and flows freely down his face from the head wound. John knew this was a bad idea, but nonetheless the telepath sends a shaky wave of reassuring contentment to the detective. _"I'm fine. It's okay." _The doctor writhes uncontrollably.

_"You are a terrible liar, John." _The detective is feeling guilty and panicked. John doesn't move, the pain in his side overtaking him, far worse than the headache throbbing painfully in his head.

"Tell me!" The pudgy man demands, pushing the gun once again into the detective's neck.

John has to do something, nobody knows where they are, there is no hope of rescue, especially not in time, with John's stab wound deep and bleeding heavily.

Nobody except John, who happens to be so angry and protective that the decision is easy.

In one swift moment, finding the seven minds, John sends one powerful wave of deep calm. The men drop rapidly, each creating a thud sound as they hit the dirt ground, not one of them knowing what hit them.

John can feel the over exertion immediately but no additional pain comes and John is confused for a second by that, before he is interrupted by the screaming of the pudgy leader.

"You are bewitched!" The man says sleepily, his arms flailing, the gun being aimed all over the place. A sudden bang erupts in the warehouse and then the man falls into his slumber.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" John calls loudly, against all odds. Now his head hurts, the pain that should have happened is growing steadily and rapidly into his mind. The detective doesn't respond and John panics. He digs into the detective's mind, bypass the lilac/honey, looking only for the pain.

John almost blacks out between finding Sherlock's pain and the doctor's own agony. The soldier has to retreat quickly before the pain renders him unconscious and therefore useless. John calls for the detective again but no answer. The doctor, with as much power as he can muster rolls onto his back.

"AHHHHHH!" John screams and bites his lip. The stab wound pangs at him, the blood soaking his jumper. John finally gets into a position where he can see the detective. John screams and shouts for the detective but Sherlock doesn't move, his body is limp and John can see the blood soaking his shirt somewhere in his midsection and the doctor hopes it missed everything major.

"SHERLOCK!" John calls again. He wriggles painfully trying to get out of his binds. The rope rubs against him but John ignores it. His face winces and contorts in turmoil. It's useless. John looks around for something sharp, anything. The man that stabbed John is millimeters away, one roll and John could reach his knife laying sheathed in it's belt.

John stares at the distance with apprehension and sheer terror. This is going to hurt.

John steels himself and on the count of three he rolls himself toward the knife.

"FUCK! AHHHHHHH JESUS! SHITE!" John yells as he rolls, the pain almost blinding. John feels the beads of sweat and the flow of blood increase. He gets as close as he can to the man, laying beside him, the hands behind his back reaching for the knife, John pushing through his torture the only way a soldier could. Finally, John clutches the still bloody knife by it's hilt, pulling it out of it's casing.

"Fuck." John exclaims as he clumsily cuts himself on the blade as the doctor tries to maneuver it to cut his binds.

With painful exertion and leverage, John saws at his restraints.

Eventually, the ropes go slack. John brings his injured hand to his front, curling it against his torso.

The doctor is breathing heavily, the blood from his head wound making his vision misty and the sting in his side growing worse, not to mention the fact that his nose has now begun to bleed from the mental exertion.

The doctor is not in the best shape. John lays briefly, letting the pain overtake him, almost willing to just fall asleep, it feels so nice.

"No, Watson. Get your arse up, Sherlock needs you." John yells at himself and after two attempts he stands up feebly, his movements are jerky and weak. He grips his side, trying to staunch the blood as he moves.

In four steps he is next to the detective.

"Sherlock." John exhales and falls to the ground next to the genius, almost falling on top of him. Sherlock doesn't move, John's hands go to work. He immediately lifts Sherlock's shirt and finds the wound, the blood soaking everything. John clamps his hands to the wound, pushing hard, trying to get the blood to stop. The contact sends John painfully into Sherlock's mind. The detective is full of pain, but no thoughts come. Through the suffering, John digs down and finds calm memories and bring them forward without hesitation.

The doctor is going to collapse from his pain, from the exhaustion and mental limitations and then Sherlock will die.

What can he do?

A small idea pops into John's mind, a crazy and maybe impossible idea.

Mycroft.

The telepath wastes no time and breaks the painful connection with Sherlock, keeping the pressure on his stomach. The genius needs help immediately.

John concentrates hard, not even sure if he can link their brains this far away. John tells himself that the range could be a Holmsian attribute and with that hope, John fills his mind with Mycroft's senses and looks for his familiar connection.

Against all odds, and John's own doubts, the doctor finds the politician, how he does it is incomprehensible and for another day, but right now John lets the chocolate and caramel combination fill him.

The politician's mind is rapidly playing as usual, but John slows down, the rubber band tensing.

John lists forward in agony, his mind and body shutting down.

_"No, not yet." _John yells at himself.

_"John. What are you doing?" _Mycroft thoughts sting horribly and the force of them make John's vision blur. John continues regardless.

John sends a wave of unadulterated pain and helplessness into the elder Holmes, hoping the Mycroft remembers their conversation of emotional codes.

_"Are you hurt?"_ Mycroft's thoughts ask and John almost cries in relief. John mindlessly presses harder onto Sherlock, blood pooling beneath the two of them.

John sends happiness and then more pain and helplessness to back it up.

"Happiness is yes, right?" John sends a wave of euphoria and happiness and pride, any emotion to make Mycroft understand.

_"Okay, Okay, Is Sherlock with you?"_ Happiness and the more pain.

_"He is hurt." _John send happiness again then a wave of pain that measured out what Sherlock is feeling.

_"Where are you?"_ John sends happiness to convey that he knows where they are at, but how does he inform Mycroft the GPS coordinates over emotions, so instead he sends irritation.

_"Okay, I know, yes and no questions."_ John sends a wave of happiness.

_"John, I can see you and Sherlock headed west on a street, towards warehouses."_ John almost explodes in relief and he sends that relief to Mycroft. John careens forward again before he catches himself, John sends a painful impatience. _"Hurry up, Mycroft, I won't last and neither will Sherlock."_

_"You are in one of those warehouses?"_ John sends happiness for clarification.

_"Which one?"_ John send irritation again.

_"Sorry, from the right, in happiness, which number warehouse are you in?"_ John focuses, as they entered they area, there were five warehouses, they went into the one in the middle, the third one. John sends one burst of happiness and then another burst and then the next before going silent.

_"The third warehouse?"_ John sends happiness.

There is nothing left, adrenaline is so long gone that John is running purely on force of will and it's slipping. John's hands are losing their force

_"John, you are fading. Why?"_ John just sends a brief stream of pain.

_"Stay conscious John. I'm almost there."_ John sends relief and then tries calling for the detective. John sends panic to Mycroft, he can feel the connection getting weaker. His hands slip and John falls on top of the detective, he screams in pain and subconsciously sends some into the link. John can't get up, he is stuck in a wave of pain and complete exhaustion. His force of will is gone.

_"John, hang on. I'm coming._" Panic emits from the politician.

Mycroft's panicked thoughts are the last thing John feels before succumbing to the cliched black. Anything, John thinks, feels better than the endless pain.

* * *

><p>Mycroft runs into the warehouse, a flank of armed men behind him.<p>

"John? Sherlock?" The politician bellows. Mycroft can no longer feel the poking of his brain and is thinking the worse.

The elder Holmes hears the sirens of ambulances (that Mycroft thought ahead and called en route) pull into the complex.

The warehouse is a maze but Mycroft has the blueprints and runs for the most likely place the doctor and his younger brother would be held.

Mycroft pushes a door open and runs into the only open space in the entire warehouse. The politician freezes. Bodies lay everywhere, all still, all of them without evidence of a wound.

_"John is a lot more powerful than I thought."_ Mycroft thinks to himself. As his employees fan out around Mycroft, the politician searches for the people that matter.

He finds them in the middle of the room. Blood is everywhere, trails of it tell exactly how John drug himself, then rolled himself and then stood moving towards the detective.

Mycroft runs over to the unconscious bodies.

John lays on top of the detective, both men soaked with red.

"Here." Mycroft commands to his employees, pulling John off of Sherlock and placing him flat. John remains motionless as does the detective.

Paramedics are next to Mycroft in an instant, the politician stands up and watches from a far as each man has their own set of paramedics, their hands all over John and Sherlock. An unconscious scream erupts from the doctor and Mycroft leans down next to John.

"John, John can you hear me?" Mycroft calls, careful not to touch the man. John writhes and struggles as the paramedic jumps around his body, putting pressure on the knife wound. Through all of this, John doesn't answer and he writhes and screams each time he is touched.

A memory hits Mycroft, one where John is talking of latex gloves and broken tactile connections. Mycroft extends his hand out abruptly, catching on of the paramedics wrist in his grip.

"Sir?" The paramedic huffs in surprise, gently pulling her grip away. The other paramedics working on John have since stopped and are watching the exchange with tension.

"All of you need to triple up in gloves." The politician commands, leaving no room for argument. He lets go of the wrist and watches as each of the paramedics comply through a haze, each reaching into their medic bag and quickly putting on more latex gloves. Now, when John is touched, he doesn't scream and his face doesn't contort in agony, instead the doctor twitches slightly. Mycroft hopes it is enough.

Soon the two men are on stretchers and escorted through the warehouse and to ambulances.

Mycroft ignores the littered bodies around him and the potential bureaucratic pile of bollocks he'll have to deal with later and follows the medics out.

Finally, they reach the surface and Mycroft breaths in relief, he gazes as the men are loaded.

A presence beside him doesn't even jostle the politician, as he watches the cars drive away, their sirens blaring there lights illuminated the street.

Not until he hears words does the elder Holmes act.

"Sir, the car is over here." Anthea says gently.

Without responding, Mycroft, his suit bloodied, runs to the sedan and they immediately take off towards the hospital, his umbrella resting against his restless knees, twisting the fabric with anxiety, giving anything to here his brother's voice or even John's intruding emotions.

* * *

><p>What do you think?<p>

I hope its okay.


	22. Dreams

Sherlock

For all of the Reichenbach fans, this story won't having anything of that fact. I think it would be impossible for Sherlock to act dead since John would be able to find the detective's mind.

Sorry if that disappoints.

I eat reviews for breakfast, along with orange juice.

I'm severely disappointed by this chapter and it's kind of hasty, I promise it will have mistakes. I will go back eventually and fix but right now I just wanted you guys to have something.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>Mycroft is diligent and determined. He follows the detective and his boyfriend throughout the hospital, pulling 'it's a matter of national security' out of his pocket every time someone gives him a look.<p>

St. Barts is a teaching school, so it's operation rooms hold overlooks for learning opportunities. Mycroft stands in one of them now, the hospital staff finally leaving him alone. He stares down at the bloodied sight, his face neutral but his insides a mixture of anxiety and apprehension.

Mycroft had just come from Sherlock's surgery, the detective's wound is, thankfully, not life threatening. The leader of the gang happened to miss everything major in Sherlock's midsection. The genius is safe, and it's all thanks to John, who with the pressure of the doctor's hands, Sherlock loss a lot less blood than he would have if John hadn't been around.

The doctor more or less, saved the detective life. It definitely isn't the first time, nor would it be the last.

They anticipated the young genius to be in surgery for another hour or so. Once the politician was certain that Sherlock was safe, Mycroft sought out to find John in his operation room.

The doctor seems worse off, in many ways. The elder Holmes looks down at the sight, blood is everywhere, drying on John's face, dripping down from his head wound, still attached to the bunched up clothes laying in the corner, their rips and fabric sheered from being cut off the ex-soldier.

John looks so small as the surgeons dig into their patient, suturing and fixing up the blond man. The knife blade ruptured the base of the spleen, making John's recovery and chances a lot more dangerous.

Not to mention the physical exertion John had to go through with a knife wound. The doctors are worried about the telepath's concussion, fearing that there are complications because of John's unconscious state. Mycroft had to insist, with an unsurpassing amount of fervor to not worry about the head wound and focus on repairing John's body.

The surgeons are reluctant but the surgery is going well, despite the fact that John has to have his spleen removed. Which takes precedent over John's concussion that Mycroft knows, from the conversation weeks ago about the side effects of mental exertion, is not really a concussion. However, the surgeons don't have to know that.

A sudden beeping in the room interrupts Mycroft's thoughts. He stares down at the operation. Machines are beeping and spouting alarm. The surgeons and nurses are frantic, one of them pumping onto John's torso.

John Watson just went into cardiac arrest.

Mycroft is forced to count the seconds with worry.

One. A nurse brings out defibrillator paddles, the whirring of the charge warning the other occupants of the impending electric current.

Two. The zap echoes the room, but John's heart doesn't start.

Three. The surgeons are yelling chaotically as the paddles charge again.

Four. Another zap.

Five. The beeping of the machine starts again and Mycroft lets in a struggled gasp. John's heart beat is faint but definite. Mycroft sighs in relief and hopes that the doctor can pull through, for Sherlock's sake, the detective won't be the same if his telepath doesn't make it.

The politician hangs his head in despair as he watches the surgeons continue the operation.

* * *

><p>The doctor and his detective's stay in the hospital is long and tedious.<p>

On the first day, Sherlock wakes, full of morphine and demanding for the doctor unsurprisingly, all through a drug induced haze. The younger man's wound healing but with considerable amount of pain, but through it all Sherlock only utters one word to whoever will listen. "John."

Mycroft wonders secretly how many mental callings the detective is emitting, hoping that John would response.

The doctor can't respond, he is in a worse state. Although the knife wound is healing and so far, no infections have started which in turn, are causing the doctors to be hopeful. Yet, John remains in a coma, or as Sherlock adamantly calls it, a deep unconscious slumber, even though the name implies John could be woken easily, which is obviously not the case.

At the end of the first day, Sherlock has to sedated because his callings for John and his thrashing and struggling when he the doctor doesn't response. His reaction threatens to pull stitches and one of the nurses comes away with a decent black eye.

All Mycroft can do is watch, in a masked sympathy.

* * *

><p>The second day, Sherlock sleeps over twelve hours, due to the sedation and the morphine, which doses grows higher and higher as Sherlock is able to fight through it easier than most.<p>

Finally at the end of the second day, Sherlock wakes and is responsive, demanding Mycroft to see John, who has to decline.

Just as midnight tolls, nurses find Sherlock in the doctor's room regardless.

* * *

><p>As much pain and agony the detective is in, he spends his waking hours devoted to being next to John, or devising schemes where he can accomplish that task.<p>

On the third day, Sherlock tries the ice water. Yet, still John does not wake, in fact nothing good comes of it, only a severely pissed off hospital staff and John's body temperature dropping down, two things that are not conducive to John's recovery.

The third day turns into the fourth and then the fifth and eventually six days pass and Sherlock has yet to see the doctor awake. Sherlock grows more and more anxious as the hours tick by.

* * *

><p>So here the detective sits, on the sixth day. The genius has been released, a mere hour ago, in which he signed the forms and then planted himself, a free, albeit sore man, in the plastic hospital chairs, waiting for John to wake.<p>

Normally, Sherlock would have probably been released earlier in the week but the doctors had to keep the detective longer than necessary. Even if the genius is brilliant, he knows nothing about healing time and he would devote every waking hour, either by John's beside (without permission) or creating said schemes to bypass the nurses, he did this instead of focus on his own healing.

To Sherlock, his recovery is irrelevant, John only matters and he would spend all of his time next to the older man, regardless of what the staff did about it.

And Sherlock is great at picking the locks of handcuffs, especially standard issue hospital handcuffs.

Finally, Sherlock's doctor, a tall, young man with deep brown hair, much like the detective in a way, decides to release the genius, claiming he isn't worth the hassle.

After all the fuss, handcuffs and threats from Mycroft and release, Sherlock is able to be where he wanted to be for the past six days, next to John.

Yet, John still sleeps in his 'not coma'.

Sherlock has tried everything, besides the physical, ice and yelling. The detective has gripped the doctor so hard and trudge up warm and happy memories in hope that they will bring John out of his, oh hell, let's call it what it is, his coma.

While he does this, Sherlock lets his mind wander, except it's not about puzzles or cases, its about John, always John.

The detective remembers the hours of when he first awoke to the hospital, his mid-section ached and hurt and the morphine fogged his mind. All he knew was John, and the lack of the doctor's presence in the room.

Sherlock didn't calm down until Mycroft made an appearance, and by that time the nurses refused to go into the room for fear of a bedpan getting thrown.

Mycroft had strode in, Sherlock with the bedpan already in his hand, the detective let the object fall once Mycroft made his appearance known.

"Where is John?" Sherlock had said through gritted teeth. Partly out of frustration and partly because his morphine was due for a dosage.

"He's in a coma, Sherlock." Mycroft had replied his umbrella twirling with ease, although inside, Sherlock can see the cold turmoil of the events.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, he didn't remember much and what he does remember is pieces, all jumbled and not really putting themselves together.

"I believe he exerted himself too much." Mycroft replied simply, flexing his hand on the umbrella's hilt.

Sherlock seemed to think it over, "How bad?" The detective asked.

"Bad." Mycroft responded. "He contacted me you know?" The politician says, moving to sit on a plastic chair beside Sherlock's bed. The detective stares back, his lips in a thin line.

"It's a very strange feeling, the Doctor inside your head." Mycroft stated.

"Yes, I'm aware." Sherlock snapped back involuntarily. His brother always brings out the worse in him.

"You are going to be the death of that man, Sherlock." The elder Holmes deadpanned.

"Mycroft-" Sherlock started.

"I'm merely saying dear brother," Mycroft held a hand up to silence the genius, "that you must be careful, he is very loyal. He crawled, rolled, and walked all whilst bleeding from a wound to his spleen. Not to mention the fact that he wiped out seven men, which I'm sure his mind shouldn't be able to handle, he had an episode when he wiped out my five at the manor."

"He did all this, remained conscious enough to stop you from bleeding out and against all odds contacted me, which I didn't know his power was that strong." Mycroft stated.

"Sherlock, that man is too loyal for his own good. I don't know anything about his ability and I'm sure you don't know much more but it will be a miracle if he wakes up."

Throughout Mycroft's entire monologue, Sherlock glares, his mouth slightly parted in shock and turmoil, agony and guilt.

"You are right Mycroft, you don't know anything about his gift." Sherlock says snidely. "John is a lot stronger than either one of us knows and he needs rest, he is just sleeping."

"Denial doesn't suit you brother." The politician stated and stood up, gripping his umbrella.

"He loves you, you know." the elder Holmes said walking out of the room.

"I know. I love him too." Sherlock whispers into the empty room.

The irregular sound of beeping pulls Sherlock out of his memories to look up at the doctor's machines. A flashing yellow is being shown. The detective panics slightly and stands up to survey John, to make sure the detective is still breathing.

The door opens, a nurse walks in, smiling warmly at the detective. Someone new then, all of John's nurses avoid the genius like the plague.

With a few buttons pushed and a squeeze of John's IV, she exits and the yellow flashing has goes away with her. Sherlock deduces that John's medicine needed a change.

Sherlock grips the doctor's hand and sits back down in the chair, pain overwhelming him, both physical and emotional.

So, six days, an ice water plunge, numerous amounts of mental warmings and John has yet to wake.

Sherlock is frustrated and exhausted and in pain. Lots of pain, mental and physical.

* * *

><p>Hours later and Sherlock has yet to move, Mycroft has come and gone, reminding Sherlock to take his medicine or chastising the younger Holmes about not going home.<p>

How could Sherlock leave? John is in a coma and if the last hours, hell days have been any consolation, he might not wake up and that thought scares the detective more than anything.

Sherlock is in the process of trudging up new and warm memories for John, memories that Sherlock has long since deleted, or at least attempted to, considering that they are still present in his hard drive.

One such memory is when Sherlock is a boy, maybe ten. The genius is enamored with his new microscope, it's sleek black surface shining with ease and the knobs are easy to turn. Sherlock spends the entire day inspecting various leaves and anything he can get his hands on in the house. This is one of Sherlock's favorite childhood memories, the only time in his younger years where he has felt happy, truly happy.

The detective feels the happiest from the memory and he gets engrossed in it, so much so that he didn't know the differences in breathing coming from the doctor in his hospital bed.

"Mmmm..tha's 'ice." The doctor slurs out weakly. Sherlock's head shoots up so fast that the memory leaves. John frowns slightly as the warm and happy leave him.

"John! John!" Sherlock calls, standing up and leaning over the hospital bed. John doesn't respond, his features lax. Sherlock's face falls, he must have imagined it, and just as the detective is about to sit down out of defeat, John's mouth twitches.

"John. John. Open your eyes." Sherlock demands, wasting no time to grip the doctor's face and feel John's stubble.

With great effort John opens his eyes, their are at half mast but Sherlock will take it.

* * *

><p><em>"John." <em>The doctor smiles at the longing in those words. He looks up at the detective looming over him.

"Hey." The doctor says, his throat dry and cracking from disuse. Sherlock is gone suddenly and the doctor panics, mostly at the abruptness. He debates calling for the detective but Sherlock is back and in front of him again.

_"Drink this." _Sherlock's thoughts command and a plastic cup is thrust at his lips. John obliges and feels relief as the cool water relaxes his throat.

"Than' you." The doctor acknowledges. John shifts but a sudden dull stab of pain stops him. The doctor stills suddenly and one of his hands flies to his side. John looks down at his side, it's covered with a hospital gown and the soldier is tempted to rip a hole through so he can see the wrapping job.

"You were stabbed." Sherlock says sadly.

John eyes snap up immediately and look at the detective. "I don't remember."

John looks from the detective to himself and shakes his head. The doctor closes his eyes and tries to remember the last memory.

"The last thing I remember is walking into a warehouse." John says, "Did Mycroft kidnap me again?" The doctor asks, any other situation and the statement would have been met with a lighthearted snort but Sherlock is silent.

_"No." _The thoughts are anxious and full of concern.

"How many?" John questions.

_"Seven." _Sherlock states, imagining what it would have been like if he were conscious and witness John taking out seven men with his mind.

"I blacked out then." John says, disinterested, shifting again, this time more slowly. It wouldn't be the first time he had no recollection of a mental connection.

_"Blacked out?" _Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Hasn't happened a lot recently." John adds, turning faintly onto his side finally, his head turned fully towards Sherlock, holding the detective's gaze. The doctor's muscles are sore with disuse and it makes moving tiring and painful.

_"Or ever." _Sherlock thinks sarcastically.

"A couple of times in the beginning." John remarks, a yawn interrupting his point. Exhaustion is clouded the doctor's mind slightly.

_"John,"_ Sherlock starts seriously. "_Go to sleep."_

"How long have I been sleeping so far?" The doctor questions, exhaustion from just waking up seeming to take its toll. The doctor closes his eyes but sends waves of happiness and encouragement to the detective. _"Yes, I'm tired but keep talking anyway."_

_"Six days."_ Sherlock's thoughts are anxious, concerned, relieved, and sad. John picks up on all the emotions and sucks them in.

John sends a wave of contentment and shame. "_I'm fine now, not hurt, I'm sorry that I worried you."_

_"You aren't allowed to do it again." _

John sends a rush of happiness and then feelings of love. _"Anything for you, I love you."_

Then the doctor falls asleep.

* * *

><p>The hot Afghanistan sun is sweltering and unwavering. John pulls at his collar absentmindedly, staring into the expansive desert, waiting for the roll of casualties to stroll in.<p>

The whir of an engine grabs John's attention and the doctor bolts towards it. The van, with a giant red cross painted shrewdly on it's side, tears into the compound. John wrenches the doors open before the driver can put the pseudo ambulance into park.

The doctor jumps into the car, coming face to face with three stretcher-ridden men, all bleeding profusely. John moves from one man to the other, not even bothering to put on gloves, instead he uses his ability to read their minds. He accesses their pain level and their memories. Two out of the three are in shock and unresponsive. John finds out their names and their birthdays. He then precedes to dig deeper and relive how each soldier got his wound.

"The man was hit by a sniper," John's commanding voice booms, "the bullet is a through and through just above the heart." John states as orderlies grab the man's stretcher and take him into the tented operation room.

John moves onto the next man, also unresponsive. He places a hand on the man's exposed torso. "This man need blood, he was in the area of an exploded mine. He has shrapnel in his legs, arms, and torso." John yells to the next pair of orderlies, who take the man away.

The third man is mumbling, his face is covered with a makeshift bandage, only his mouth is visible. John latches on to his connection but it's silent. John stares blankly at the man, reaching hard into his brain looking for memories, nothing responds. Instead, the strong smell of blood meets John. The doctor reels back but his hand is stuck, like something glued it to the man's chest. John tries to yank his hand away but it won't budge. The doctor starts to panic fiercely.

"Watson." The man says and John stops. He stares down at the soldier with panic. The man continues to mumble so John leans closer, intrigued and curious about the injured soldier who knows his name.

As John leans further and further in, the man's mumblings become more coherent and John senses familiarity with the voice.

"Johnny boy." The Irish voice says and John panics, the blood integrated with his mind and memories. The doctor freaks out and will another pull yanks his hand free, running from the vehicle with shameless haste. He bolts out the back of the ambulance but desert or sand doesn't greet him. The dream has changed and John is greeted with the insides of a warehouse. Eight men occupy the huge space, six of them in a circle surrounding the remaining two.

One of them, John recongnises instantly.

"Sherlock." John screams, running towards the detective, the ambulance long forgotten. John barges through the circle of men with exertion, the men are solid, barely moving from their spots. John has to squeeze in between two of the circle men to get in.

The doctor immediately throws himself at Sherlock. The detective is ignoring him. John wraps his hands around the detective's neck and cries into him, images of the man who mentally smelled of blood terrorising John's thoughts.

A sudden bang startles John. The smell of gunpowder pollutes the air and John turns his head to see the other man in the circle. A short pudgy excuse of man and John has the slightest sense of Deja Vu.

John feels Sherlock go slack in his arms. The doctor's head snaps back to the detective who is falling away from the soldier, blooding soaking the area around his abdomen.

"Sherlock!" John calls, guiding the detective down onto the concrete. "Sherlock!"

The doctor's hands are all over Sherlock's, trying to stop the damage. Confusion, fear, anxiety, and horror flash alternatively in John's mind.

John cups the detective's cheeks but no connection happens. No warmth of lilac and honey, no smarmy thoughts. Cold, empty blankness. Tears trek down John's eyes.

"SHERLOCK!" John screams and the detective opens his eyes, looking straight at the doctor.

"Sherlock, I can't hear you." The soldier cries.

"I know." Sherlock responds unmoving. His body going limp, his breathing stopping.

"SHERLOCK!" John calls gripping the detective all over, not letting the man die. Tears falling from his face, Sherlock's crimson insides staining his fingers.

"SHERLOCK!"

"Dr. Watson." A slimy voice calls out and John turns towards the pudgy leader, anger, resentment, fury towards the man splay across John's face.

"Say hello to Sherlock for me." A sudden bang echoes in the warehouse and John falls.

* * *

><p>"SHERLOCK!" John screams and with a gasp, the doctor bolts upright. He can't breath, the panic and the grief immobilising all of his inward workings. His eyes are open but unseeing.<p>

He vaguely feels hands around him. The doctor is sobbing and his emotions are all over the place.

_"John. Calm down." _Sherlock thoughts invade and John flinches away. He shouldn't be able to hear the detective.

_"It was just a dream. You are fine. You are safe. I've got you." _The thoughts repeat over and over again and John realises that none of it was real. The doctor's eyes focus and they find the detective. Sherlock is on the bed with him, rocking the both of them with ease while John sobs uncontrollably.

John tries to speak but he hiccups and chokes on the words. Instead, he sense a wave of grief, dread, shame, and pain. _"I thought you were dead."_

_"It's okay, I'm here." _Sherlock's thoughts response.

"Sher-Sherlock." John hiccups and the detective grips the doctor tighter.

"It's okay, John it was just a dream." The detective says out loud, his words soothing.

John just nods feebly, trying to get his breathing in control.

"I remember the warehouse." John states weakly, "I think Moriarty was involved."

* * *

><p>Thoughts, ideas?<p>

What do you guys think about Moriarty having powers?

Or what about a reverse Reichenbach, with John having to fake his own death to save the detective and then being tortured through a year or so of Sherlock calling out to him but John not being able to answer? What do you think about that?

If I went down that road, the post-Reichenbach stuff would be in a sequel for sure.

What do you guys think? It's already a ridiculous AU, might as well go all out, eh?


	23. Bristol

So the end is near. This fics has about two or three more chapters before the end I think.

A couple of things.

1. Thank you so much for the reviews, they are positively wonderful.

2. Now, I've heard a lot of feedback about a Reverse Reichenbach and I gotta say, I find myself intensely curious about how it would work. It's a serious consideration.

3. I've also gotten a lot of feedback from people about Moriarty having powers.

For the two, Reverse Reichenbach and Moriarty having powers, I'm going to write it with the majority of reviews I get so, write up..tell me what you want, a good old fashion vote if you will.

Next chapter will be the start of the end.

Another thing, I'm setting up for the ending chapters and the sequel, regardless of what you guys decide, so Sherlock's range is going up, considering they haven't tested the full range of how far John can hear Sherlock.

Oh my gosh, I know it's been a while but I had to edit pictures and stuff, oh my gosh, I spent like two days, about 8 hours each day on a marathon of Photoshop and Lightroom. I'm exhausted.

Reviews have been awesome and I love everyone.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>"Sherlock." John calls entering the flat. The doctor is exhausted. It's been about a week and half since the stint in the hospital and the doctor is steadily growing stronger, physically and mentally. His muscles are just getting their strength back after John's stint in a coma.<p>

However, it's the detective who is acting strange. Weirder than normal, ever since John came back to the flat from the hospital, the detective has delved into his work with great enthusiasm.

That, however is not the weird part, that's normal, the strangeness is the fact that Sherlock is attempting to do the cases and the chases all by himself and hasn't once ask for John help or opinions.

If the doctor is honest with himself, it kind of hurts it makes John feel unwanted, not to mention the fact that Sherlock has insisted upon being quiet, physically and mentally.

So, John has been tramping around London for the past two hours, doing the shopping and errands and not once has Sherlock said anything to keep him company. It kind of makes the doctor miss Sherlock a little bit. The detective is always in John's head, and now that the doctor brings attention to it, it seems overbearingly creepy.

Who is John kidding? He loves it when the detective is there and always available, spouting out random facts or simple beckoning the doctor. John misses it, all of it.

When he walks up the flat stairs, into the sitting room, calling for the detective, he hopes to god that the genius responds mentally.

No such luck, in fact, the detective doesn't respond at all, much to disappointment of John. The doctor rounds the corner and moves into the kitchen, calling once more for the younger man before deciding that Sherlock has left, once again with John, probably on some chase throughout London.

Now that's got John into a decent sulk.

John throws out the only ammunition he has, the emotional code.

John and Sherlock have been together for a year, yes it's been a year, one year in exactly five days. (A/N: The timeline update is at the bottom for those who are interested)

In that time frame, there is one thing John knows that Sherlock will respond to, sex. Now, whether the detective response to it negatively or positively is a whole other story, considering that most of the time, Sherlock is case focused and that means he will be abstinent. Despite that, John has always gotten the detective to respond, even if it is a rejection.

So, John uses the only thing he knows will make the detective respond. He sends a huge wave of randiness into the genius and the doctor doesn't stop until Sherlock responds.

Now, some may argue that this is abusing the rules. Technically its not, the rules only state issues with negative feelings and the boundaries of calming emotions, it doesn't state anything about manipulation through extreme horny waves to make the a boyfriend break his mental barrier of silence.

Seconds, that's all it takes before Sherlock is screaming in John's head.

_"Johnathan."_ Sherlock screams and John shivers. Sherlock only say the doctor's full name when he is extremely miffed. Mission Accomplished.

The doctor transmits longing and smugness. _"I win and I miss you."_

The detective doesn't respond so John sends another surge of randy feelings, causing the detective to open his barriers again.

_"John. I'm terribly busy."_ Sherlock's thoughts are firm and full of frustration but the detective doesn't stop.

Then John has a sudden thought, he pulls out his mobile, wanting to get the question right.

_How far away are you? - JW_

_"Far, Bristol."_ Sherlock thoughts are abruptly sheepish, almost like he is afraid of the doctor's reaction.

And he should be, John has never typed so seriously on a mobile before.

_BRISTOL! How the hell can you hear me in Bristol, that's like 200 kilometers away. JW_

John is in shock, he knew the connection is strong and that Sherlock is quirky and his mind only furthers John's proof of said quirkiness but Bristol is way outside of London. How can the detective be so far away._  
><em>

_"201.16 technically."_

_Sherlock! -JW_

_How is this possible? - JW_

_"You have been getting more familiar with my connection and I'm getting use to you in brain. Considering all of the quirks and anomalies that my brain has in results of your ability. I would say that we are gaining distance because the connection is apart of us and our personalities."_

_Yeaaaahhhh, thanks for clearing that up - JW_

_"Don't be an idiot. I merely saying that the connection has become a part of us now and I'm sure the range will be ever expanding."_

Well, that's a scary thought.

_But Bristol? -JW_

_"Bristol is a part of the 'ever expanding' concept." _Sherlock's thoughts are cheeky and full of annoyance.

_Hang on, what are you doing in Bristol? - JW_

_"Getting randy apparently."_ Sherlock's thinks snidely. It's John turn to be sheepish. _"I'm obviously on a case John."_

_Shut up, you haven't said anything to me in days. - JW_

_"So you decide to manipulate me with emotions, that's actually kind of impressive John. Besides your statement is false, we talked this morning." _

_That's not what I mean and you know it- JW._

_"Are my thoughts any less clear?"_

_No, just as crystal as if you were standing next to me. - JW_

_"Fascinating."_

_We need to talk when you get back.- JW _

The doctor is angry, furious with the detective, part of him is angry that Sherlock ran off to Bristol without telling anyone and another part of John is angry that Sherlock didn't invite him. John is hurt and feels unwanted.

_"I'm doing it to protect you." _Sherlock's thought is quiet in admittance.

John sends a defiant smug confidence._ "I'm not helpless, I don't need protection."_

_"Yes, you do." _Sherlock states and quiets the connection, not even giving into John's waves of horny feelings.

* * *

><p>Sherlock walks into the flat tiptoeing, he knows that he is in some sort of trouble even though the detective's motivations are sound and completely logical, if only John could see that.<p>

The connection silence is a mere conscious effort, it doesn't hurt the genius or hinder Sherlock's abilities, it's merely a decision that the detective makes and his mind obeys, silencing his thoughts to John's prying gift.

Although, if Sherlock is honest, he misses sharing his feelings, what little he consciously thinks about, and he is actually missing John's opinions and comments on how brilliant the detective is at deductions.

It is, however, for John's best interest, now that Sherlock is actively searching for Moriarty in the midst of England. The doctor cannot know, it would suspend Sherlock's inquires of some of England's low level criminals, something the detective needs to do to protect John, to protect his doctor.

The flat is quiet, the evening has long since turned into early morning and Sherlock suspects the doctor is sleeping in their bed.

Sherlock, the insomniac that he is, feels completely awake, his mind alternating between locations of possible Moriarty hideouts, new experiments and John. The detective is rather ashamed to admit how much of the his brain is devoted to John Watson.

Sherlock enters the sitting room, intent on going right for his violin when a soft noise stops him. The detective's head snaps towards the settee. John lays on it, his body draped lazily and comfortably. The doctor's jumper has ridden up, display his taunt abdomen, John's laboured hands resting comfortably on his chest, his lungs inflating and exhaling with precise movements.

The detective stares at the sight, the gorgeous blond who is on his couch, sleeping, the genius deducing that John had tried to wait up for Sherlock and feel asleep.

Sherlock forgets the violin and has a new plan.

The younger man stalks over to John and kneels beside him. Sherlock runs a hand through John's mussed hair, causing the doctor to lean into the touch subconsciously.

"Sherlock." John exhales in his sleep and the detective smiles. Sherlock cups a hand to John's cheek and feels the pin prick against his mind that comes along with the tactile link. The bond is quiet, mostly because John isn't pushing thoughts, but occasionally, emotions in John's dreams will push through.

Right now, as John breathes Sherlock's name again, a tiny surge of anxiety and fear ripple through Sherlock, sending the detective on edge and feeling the unsuspected and irrational fear propel him into action.

The detective pulls up potent happy memories, ever since the soldier's nightmare in the hospital, Sherlock has devoted his conscious nights making John's dreams disappear by controlling the emotions the doctor feels. So far, it's worked all the time and Sherlock can see the beginning of John's nightmares.

The younger man curses himself for staying in Bristol too long and immediately pushes the potent memories into John, hoping he isn't too late to calm the doctor out of his plaguing nightmares.

John trembles slightly when Sherlock puts another hand onto the older man's neck, pushing his lilac/honey pair and happy memories of his childhood (what little there are) and more happy memories of Sherlock solving his first official case.

The detective feels a random bout of contentment being pushed through John's subconscious and for once, the detective can't decipher it, the genius wonders if the doctor is trying to communicate that he is fine or if the feeling is a result of a good dream.

The genius is actually puzzled.

Sherlock doesn't remain puzzled very long because John's eyes are suddenly open, his body pushing up against Sherlock's leaning form.

The detective falls back in surprise with a thud, the doctor had no evidence of being out of his dream state.

John grips his knees tightly, looking towards the windows of Baker Street, his gaze unfocused and his face blank.

"John?" Sherlock says out loud, looking at the site curiously from the floor.

The soldier turns his head and then lowers it to the floor.

"Sher-Sherlock?" The doctor asks hesitantly, blinking a few times and shaking his head. The genius stands and is by John's side in no time.

_"What is it? What's wrong?" _

John shakes his head, he doesn't know what's wrong. His dream was confusing, it was full of blood and then the younger Holmes had been there and Moriarty and John couldn't handle it. Then he started to feel calm about it and occasionally, Sherlock would be seven or eighteen or a different age, changing in front of John's flummoxed eyes. The criminal mastermind would laugh at each change and comment with nasty, degrading remarks and John was forced to watch, helpless, and feel calm and happy about it.

The dream is lingering with John, the calm fading and the fear and anxiety that should normally take place is creeping in with sinister and calculated movements.

_"John." _

"I-I don't know." John says truthfully, his confusion real and terrifying. The doctor stares at Sherlock with deep eyes, the irises dilated with emotion and lingering effects of his dream.

_"Was it Moriarty's dream again?" _Sherlock's face is a mask of concerned worry and John finds himself lost in it, the liquid smoke of his eyes and the expressions that only the doctor has the privilege of seeing.

"No...I mean yes." John states confused, his thoughts playing tricks on his emotions, the doctor hangs in his head into his hands and lets out a shaky breath, willing the faint smell of blood to go away. "It was different."

_"Different how?" _Sherlock places a hand onto John's shoulder, a warm and comforting gesture.

However, the doctor shakes his head, he can't say it out loud, Sherlock changing ages and John completely helpless, it's too much.

Instead, John changes the subject.

"I should be angry with you." The doctor remarks quietly and bluntly, lifting his head up slightly, looking at Sherlock.

"John-" Sherlock starts, unclasping his hand from John's shoulder, afraid the doctor is too angry for touching of any kind.

"I'm not. I should be, but I'm not." The soldier exhales, his honesty tiring. It is truthful, John isn't angry or furious at Sherlock, he understands why the detective did it and even though it hurts and makes John feel unwanted, the doctor would have done the same thing, anything to protect Sherlock.

Sherlock stares in confusion. _"Why not?"_

John doesn't answer, his own thoughts reeling and trying to be honest without letting his true feelings play on his face.

The doctor isn't successful, Sherlock sees the longing and the relief and the turmoil radiate off of John's eyes and mouth.

_"It was never about me leaving without telling you, or even about keeping silent. You feel unwanted." _The detective grimaces as the thought comes together.

John just turns his head away from the genius, his face grim and overbearingly unmasked.

"You know that's not true right?" Sherlock asks and John turns his head back at the baritone trill.

"I know," says John simply and Sherlock, to prove a point, grabs John's exposed wrist and brings up memories of love and adoration. All memories of Sherlock happy in John's presence and various memories of John making the detective proud.

The doctor's eyes remain closed as he watches the memories and their emotions float around his head and he starts to feel calm, even smiling at the memories of their first kiss surface.

"It's for your own good." Sherlock adds quietly, gripping the doctor's chin, making John open his eyes to meet the younger Holmes.

John yanks his wrist away from Sherlock, the calming feeling dissipating and John's anxiety and anger suddenly coming to the forefront.

"I know!" John yells suddenly, standing up in the process. The detective stands abruptly too just as John moves towards the kitchen.

_"John." _Sherlock's mind starts, as the detective follows John into the kitchen, already hearing the small noises of the kettle boiling.

"I'm not helpless, Sherlock." John says, whirling around when he hears the footsteps of the younger man enter the tile floor. "How do you think it makes me feel? That you are all around London and I'm not there to help. What if something bad happens and I'm not there?" John yells, gripping the counter until his knuckles are white, the unspoken question lingering between them. _What if you are dying, and I'm not there?_

_"I thought you said you weren't angry?" _Sherlock's thoughts are snide and the genius raises an eyebrow.

John shakes his head. Sherlock is right, John wasn't angry, before falling asleep on the settee, the doctor had spent the majority of the night dealing with his emotions and his reasons, trying to be diplomatic and empathic.

It worked until a certain consulting detective decided to flaunt his self-righteousness in front of him. Now John is suddenly furious, angry with how Sherlock is going about chasing down criminals, angry that Sherlock is being reckless.

The doctor doesn't answer, his own emotions out of whack, plus they really don't need to wake up Mrs. Hudson with another domestic, and if John doesn't get his temper in control, they will wake up the whole bloody street with their yelling.

John takes deep breaths and turns away from the detective, forcing his eyes closed and his body to relax.

Silence encases the small kitchen, floating around the two bodies, causing a restricting tension and overwhelming anxiety.

_"John, I'm not sorry about not asking you to go with me to Bristol or any of the other cases. I believe it is for your protection. I can't stressed that enough."_

John snorts but doesn't move. "I know, I don't expect you to be." John sighs with resignation and defeat. The anger slowly leaving him, fatigue and despair staying in it's place.

_"I am sorry, however, about how you misinterpreted it." _John can feel the detective moving further into the tiled room and placing himself mere centimeters behind the doctor.

John turns and gapes in shock, the detective is close, enough where John can reach out and touch the man's chest, and so he does just that. John's hand is promptly on Sherlock's chest, the doctor feeling the younger man's heart beat steadily with neutral rhythm.

Sherlock rarely apologises and when he does, the 'sorrys' are snide and sarcastic. The doctor looks into the genius's eyes and sees genuine sadness.

"It doesn't matter." John says eventually and quietly, his voice thick with a self-depreciating tone, lowering his head and staring a his hand on the younger man's chest.

Fingers cup the doctor's chin gently and tilt it up. "It does matter," Sherlock remarks simply, slouching slightly to place a soft kiss upon John's lips. The doctor respond eagerly, deepening the kiss and throwing a hand around the genius's neck, pulling the younger man closer.

The connection is instant and Sherlock doesn't hold back, the silence gone and memories float between them. John moans softly against their combined lips, his emotions no longer glum but suddenly happy and it's not because of memory manipulation.

Abruptly, John breaks the kiss, partly to breath and another part because he isn't done with the conversation.

"No more, Sherlock." John states firmly, wrapping his arms around the thin waist in front of him and gripping the genius tight. "I can't do it, knowing you are out their and I could be helping."

"John, I-" The detective tries, holding John tight.

"I can't do it," The doctor interrupts sadly, "and if you don't agree, I will just follow you, wandering around the streets of London by myself. I might even make a sigh that says, 'Kidnap Me, Fresh Meat'." John adds, hiding his manipulation smirk in Sherlock's chest.

_"That's not fair, John."_

"I wouldn't hesitate for a second." is John's simply response, tearing himself away from the detective confidently and moving to the screaming kettle. John's back is turned to the genius as he removes the piercing object and continues about making tea.

Thin arms are around John once again and he can feel Sherlock's breath against his ear.

_"Fine." _

"I'm sorry what was that?" John inquires smugly.

"I said fine." Sherlock admits with a huff of irritation. "You'd be safer with me than out on some street with a sandwich board."

John laughs and leans his head back onto Sherlock's shoulder briefly.

Just like that, John's anger dissipates, leaving a warm happy feeling. The doctor wonders idly if it's because he won and argument or because he finally feels wanted again, even if he had to use manipulation as a source of motivation.

_"With your tactics, John, you are going to start becoming more like me." _The doctor shudders at the thought.

"We really don't need two of you." John states, smiling as Sherlock's grip tightens in happiness, a smile plastered upon both of their faces.

* * *

><p>(A:N)<p>

Timeline update, I find myself not knowing how long this fic has been going on.

I'm going to break it down. It's long, I know I'm soo sorry, but it's important.

Chapter 2: John is remembering the first few months with Sherlock and going with the canon of them haven't met in January, it would have been late March when John is reminiscing.

Chapters 3-5 happens in day or two, so not much time has passed there. (March)

Chapter 6 takes place a couple days of John leaving the hospital, a week at the most. So now that brings us into April.

By the end of Chapter 7, when Sherlock is eating different foods to change his smell/taste, I would say the experiments last the entire month of April at that point, so it would be early May. Sherlock and John officially got together in the beginning of April. This may seem fast but considering that John can read Sherlock's mind and notice how deep the love runs, I think for this fic's sake it's okay.

Now Chapter 8, at the beginning of chapter 9's author note, I stated in that the fic jumps ahead six months and in that time, John mastered gifts and moved along in Johnlock's relationship. So Mycroft's party takes place in November.

Chapter 9- Day or two at the most. John and Sherlock with the MRIs

Chapter 10 - A few weeks have passed, The boys talk about the effects of the party. putting John and Sherlock successfully into the last week of November

Chapter 11 - A day or so of Sherlock in the hospital from the intruder. (November)

Chapter 12-13 - Three days, still in the last days of November. Then Mycroft kidnaps John and takes the doctor to his manor. (November)

Chapter 14 - Another day passes when John is unconscious from the mental exertion from the care ride home. (November)

Chapter 15 - a day passes when Sherlock refuses to do experiments before John manipulates the detective in return for the location of Mycroft's cameras. They are into December now. Half way through this chapter a week passes. (Beginning of December)

Chapter 16-17. A day or so, recuperating from Moriarty's visit. (December)

Chapter 18-19 - There is no definite time lapse but giving the fact that John seemed refreshed in the chapter, I would give another week, putting the timeline firmly in the middle of December. (You guys can see how well I thought this through, not even mentioning Christmas. I'm awesome.)

Chapter 20 - Towards the middle of this chapter it notes a couple of months have passed, (thank god I skipped out on my Christmas lapse, phew, a thousand apologies) So that puts us into the beginning of February. Making it more than a year in time spans.

Chapter 21 starts with no definite time lapse between the Yarders and the time Mycroft comes to visit. Let's just say it's about a week or so. and then when the warehouse, with the gang comes around it's another two weeks. Placing Johnlock into the early throes of March.

Chapter 22 - A week passes in when John's coma, so middle march.

Chapter 23 - Roughly one & a half more weeks past, bringing Johnlock to their first year anniversary. Fluffiness? You bet.


	24. The Breaking of Rule 12

Alrighty then,

I'm still taking votes on Reverse Reichenbach and Moriarty having powers.

So far there are 18 votes for a RR and 5 votes against it

There are 12 votes for Moriarty having powers and 5 votes against it, however, Power0girl stated in one of her reviews that I've laid more groundwork for Moriarty having powers and I have to agree, that's why I decided to give Moriarty some semblance of powers, it's up to your votes on how much power he gets.

I've also decided that John is going to get kidnapped by Moriarty and that how the finale will go, I went back in reviews and found people who commented about it and it was like 6 to 4, so and plus I've already started writing it.

Review, vote, love.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>A case, it's always a case. The thrill and the chase, it pumps adrenaline into John, coursing through his blood like rapids stirring a placid river.<p>

The ex-soldier is following Sherlock diligently, jumping the gaps between rooftops of unassuming buildings, in hot pursuit of the latest serial rapist. John is two steps behind the detective, who just leaped a significant gap.

The doctor stops suddenly, skidding to a stop just meters away from the opening, an irrational fear holding gripping at him and holding him anchored to the wrong side of the gap. John hasn't felt this hesitant since the first night, chasing after the cab, Sherlock taking John on his first 'rooftop pursuit'.

John shakes his head, dispelling his qualms, he steps back a couple paces and then with a running leap launches himself across the crevice. John lands on the other side without problem, instantly sprinting to catch up with the determined sleuth, who is already onto the next building, quickly catching up to the criminal.

John runs faster than before, trying to catch up. He keeps his eyes open with force and watches as Sherlock catches up to the criminal, only a leap away.

John jumps the last gap, coming to a halt.

_"John."_

John stills in confusion, he only looked down for a second when jumping and in that time, the criminal had grabbed Sherlock and is now pointing a knife to the detective's pale neck. The man, Ian Jeremiah, is surprisingly taller than the genius, his form towering at least 30 centimeters above Sherlock's form, the right height to hold onto the detective with brute force.

"Stop where you are." The man demands, digging the knife into Sherlock's neck with more force. John stares in shock, Ian Jeremiah is just a kid, maybe 18. The doctor's mind reels, how can someone so young be so brutal to woman? John straightens up, trying to be less threatening to the boy in front of him.

John sends emotions into the already open connection between the detective and himself. The first feeling is a rush of confusing contentment. "Are you okay?"

_"Yes, John. I'm fine."_

The doctor sighs and steps forward, trying to think of a plan.

Jeremiah panics and steps back, his feet centimeters from the ledge.

"Okay." John states, holding his hands up in surrender. The criminal glances behind and then down to the ground below. "That's a long ways down." The doctor adds with a soothing tone.

"Stay back," The criminals voice is panicked and scared, his eyes darting back and forth. "If I fall, he falls." Jeremiah says, digging the knife into Sherlock's neck further.

"Okay, what do you want?" John asks, hoping he can be diplomatic and he won't have to count on his ability to get them out of the situation.

"I don't want to go to prison." The boy states, moving more towards the edge, forcing Sherlock to move with him. John is starting to lose his calm demeanor. The building is high, too high to survive and Sherlock is not going to be dragged down by some lunatic.

"Unfortunately, that isn't an option, Jeremiah." Sherlock remarks and the criminal snarls, dragging the knife across Sherlock's throat, deep enough to draw blood but not life threatening.

John steps forward instinctively at the sight of blood. He sends an irritated wave of consternation and unhappiness._ "Shut up, Sherlock."_

"You are just a kid, Ian. Think about it, if you cooperate now, maybe the law will take it easy on you." John states quickly trying to dispel the knife sliding any deeper into the detective's neck.

"I can't go to jail." Jeremiah states again, more firmly, glancing behind him once more. John takes another step forward.

The panicked boy reacts badly to John's advancing steps and grows even closer to the edge.

_"John."_ Sherlock's thought is faintly panicked.

John makes a decision. He branches out, finding Ian's link and sends calming effects into his mind.

Jeremiah stays firm, his stance unrelenting. The calming effects aren't working. John internally panics and transmits confusion, distress and helplessness into Sherlock. _"It's not working."_

_"It isn't working?" _Sherlock's thoughts are confused slightly and John sends a confirmation wave of happiness.

_"Try something else." _

What could he try? If the calming effect isn't working for some reason, John couldn't send him into a coma and the situation could become even more dangerous.

He could send a paralysing grief but that goes against Rule 12 and John's own conscience. (_Rule#12, pushing negative emotions upon someone is strictly prohibited_)

Jeremiah inches closer to the edge, glancing down nervously but with a determined confidence.

_"John!" _Sherlock shouts and John makes a decision, in a split second John sends overwhelming grief and despair into Ian's mind.

Ian Jeremiah's eyes grow wide and dilate, he shakes his head in confusion, the grip on the knife tightens but his grip on Sherlock loosens. In one quick movement, Sherlock tears himself out of the criminal's grasp and launches himself away from the edge, standing beside John.

The doctor sighs in relief and glances over at the detective.

_"Fine. I'm fine." _Sherlock waves a hand dismissively and both men turn their attention back to Jeremiah.

The hasn't moved, his thoughts confusing him and the grief making him weaker. Tears fall from the boy's face at the overwhelming feeling of despair.

John slowly advances, now that Sherlock is out of the way.

"Ian, it's okay." John states with comfort, merely centimeters away from the boy.

Jeremiah shakes his head and puts his hands against his temples. John pulls out immediately, the boy's mind is fragile, weak even and the emotions are too much for him.

Just as John is about to grab for Jeremiah, Ian's eyes roll back and his knees give out. John reaches out but it's too late, Jeremiah lists back uncontrollably.

"No." John screams launching himself towards the edge, desperately trying to grab out for the boy.

He feels a hand on his jumper, preventing John from careening over the side of the building.

John's upper body lays in midair, Sherlock's hand on his back preventing the doctor from falling, but John's hands are empty and he watches gravity push the boy towards the ground. Ian Jeremiah lands with a sickening thud.

John stares for a long minute, his thoughts in shock.

In a sudden movement John uses both of his hands to push himself up off the ledge. Sherlock helps by pulling on the back of John's jumper. The doctor is up and running to the adjacent edge of the rooftop.

_"John."_ The soldier can here Sherlock's thoughts call out to him in confusion but John doesn't stop. The soldier finds the fire escape and climbs down it at a record place. Once he gets his feet firmly on the stairs of the fire escape he flies down the steps, the metal clanging at his eager running.

All the while, John can only think._ "Maybe he's alive, maybe I can help him."_ The doctor holds onto that thought, a better alternative to his other thoughts. _"I killed him. This is my fault."_

Down the stairs, John lost count of how many floors in the building after the fifth zigzagging metal staircase. Finally, John makes it to the last staircase and climbs down the ladder to the ground, jumping off of the last rung and falling to the ground below, about a two and a half meters distance.

The fall ricochets painfully up John's legs but the doctor is up, ignoring the shooting pain, and sprinting towards Jeremiah, rounding the corner into the alleyway.

He sees the form of Ian and kneels beside it instantly. John checks for a pulse rapidly but doesn't find one. Blood seeps from Jeremiah's head, pooling below the criminal.

"No." John whispers, punching a fist directly onto Jeremiah's chest, right over his heart, attempting a strong CPR.

Hands are around John and the doctor tries to fight them, desperate to continue saving the young boy's life.

The doctor didn't even register that Sherlock had followed him, John's mind solely focused on getting to Jeremiah. The detective had sprinted after John and it is not that surprising really. The soldier tried to save someone from falling off the ledge and in the process almost falls off himself and then immediately bolts from the rooftop like it's on fire. _"I would follow myself down multiple stories of fire escapes too." _The doctor thinks to himself.

Sherlock tears the doctor away from the body, dragging John against the dirty alleyway and holding the older man to his chest. John struggles to get away, writhes and arches his back to bring the boy back to life.

"He's dead, John." The detective deadpans out loud.

The doctor stares at the body, his eyes closed and his limbs bent at awkward angles. John stops fighting and lays limp in Sherlock's arms, his breathing heavy and shallow.

"I killed him." John whispers, despair and guilt lacing his voice.

"He was a serial rapists." Sherlock's baritone responds, gripping John tighter.

"He was just a boy." John bites back, staring at the boy, his lifeless body burning into John's brain, ammunition for future nightmares.

Even though the April air is surprisingly warm and Sherlock's body heat is encompassing, John can't help shiver as a feeling of cold guilt settles deep within him.

John pushes himself away from Sherlock, standing up abruptly just as Lestrade and company sprints around the corner.

The doctor leans against a wall, as far as possible from Jeremiah's corpse, all the while staring at the dead boy in front of him.

"What the hell happened?" Lestrade asks looking between John, Sherlock and the rapist lying on the ground.

"He jumped." Sherlock says with disinterest, moving closer to John, planting himself in between the dead body and John's shocked stare.

"How?" Sally asks, moving to the body, kneeling down and checking for a pulse.

"It's all my fault." John voice is quiet and hoarse. All eyes look to the doctor, his stance is small and timid. Sherlock's eyes move swiftly to John's blank expression. The genius walks over to John while the rest of the Yarders stare quizzically.

_"John, you tried to save him. It's not your fault." _The younger man grips John's shoulders and pulls him into a hug, embracing the man with warmth and love.

John sends a wave of guilt, unhappiness, pain, regret, irritation, grief and despair. _"I did it, I made him lose his balance."_

Sherlock shakes his head, his chin brushing slowly across John's blond locks. The detective pulls out of the embrace and crouches down slightly to look John in the eye.

_"No you didn't. He fell off and you tried to save him."_

"What is going on?" Lestrade questions, watching the scene unfold but not questioning it, he's known for years how good Sherlock is at reading expressions and ignores the exchange.

Sherlock turns slightly towards the DI with a neutral gaze. "He had some sort of fit and then fell off the roof. John reached out and tried to save him, almost falling off the roof himself."

Lestrade's face softens and looks at the doctor who gaze is directed at the former Jeremiah.

"John, you did the best you could." Lestrade states, moving towards John, the DI's voice is low and soothing.

John doesn't look at the advancing Lestrade and instead gazes away from the scene. "I know." The doctor says sadly, moving out of the alleyway, away from the death and the memories.

As he gets to the street, blue flashing lights illuminate the road and John leans against a brick wall, waiting patiently for Sherlock to be done or someone to take his statement, whichever comes first.

The doctor can vaguely hear the detective giving his statement to Lestrade in the alleyway and closes his eyes, breaking the connection so he doesn't have to see the boy in Sherlock's mind.

John notices a presence and opens his eyes hoping that it's Sherlock so they can go home. The doctor is slightly disappointed when he realises it's Sally standing in front of him. The doctor sighs and straightens up, his back no longer leaning against the brick, his stance purely military and confident.

"Let's get this over with shall we?" John asks impatiently nodding towards Sally's pad and pen. He just wants to get away from this horrible day.

"John, I'm sorry." Donovan says quietly, her voice hushed as if she is admitting a great weakness. The soldier softens and gazes into the policewoman's eyes.

"So am I." John remarks, shaking his head sadly.

"He was a bad guy." She whispers, trying to cheer the doctor up.

"Should that really justify his death?" John asks, cursing himself for his pretentious morals and their ability to instill guilt.

"I guess not." Donovan remarks, fiddling with her pen and paper absentmindedly.

"Right, lets get this over with." John states and proceeds to tell his story. With John's gift, it becomes tricky to give an accurate depiction of how certain things happen, especially to the police. Mostly, John just tells the truth, the doctor and his detective chased Jeremiah on the roof, he grabbed a hold of Sherlock, had some sort of fit and feel off the roof.

All in all, it is a relatively honest account, only leaving out his gift being the reason the criminal had a fit.

"Thank you, John." Sally says once they are finished, "And again, I'm sorry."

"Thanks Sally." John remarks and the policewoman walks away towards the crime scene tape.

Once his statement has been taken, John feels the sudden urge to be somewhere else, anywhere but this area. His feet are moving before John even commands them. The lights and the sirens and the bustle of a crime scene are fading into the distance and John walks towards the darker streets.

It doesn't take long for John to realise that he just killed a man, a boy. It also doesn't take long for the soldier to find himself in a pub, not far from the crime scene.

The pub is dark and quiet and no one bothers John as he saddles up to the bar. His fingers twitching and his mind reeling. He orders a pint without a conscious effort and chugs it down.

He closes off his mental barriers, not wanting to hear any unwanted thoughts push at him. Especially from the detective, who no doubt will deduce his location soon enough.

The doctor silently curses the genius's accurate deductions as John orders another drink.

_"You killed the cabby in cold blood, how is this different?"_ John asks himself as he drinks the next pint, this time a little slower. It is different, John killed the cabby with a gun, a physical weapon and it was a conscious choice to protect Sherlock.

_"This was a conscious choice."_ John presents to himself, the pint going down with a bitter taste.

_"I killed that boy with mind, not my gun. It's different, more personal, more terrifying."_ John argues with himself. It's true, the doctor did kill the cabby with the gun which is on a different weapon level than John's mind.

_"Then, how is it any different than the home intruder?"_ John question himself, downing the rest of the pint and ordering another, realising that drinking away his sorrows is an extremely bad idea and it makes John no different than his father or his sister. Yet, somewhere in his logical decision making process, the doctor decides he doesn't care, images of the boy's shattered body dance across his mind only encourage his decision.

It is still different, John hasn't killed like this before. The home intruder was an accident, his rage and desperation in control and killing that man was out of the control of John's conscience. The doctor still doesn't know how he did it and the fact that John is powerful enough to do something like that is extremely terrifying.

_"I should add that to the rules. No killing with my mind."_ John thinks to himself bitterly, snorting and hiccuping slightly. Perhaps the drinks are getting to the doctor, he always was a lightweight.

No matter how the doctor spins it, this death is eating at him, and it all boils down to it being a conscious decision, the fact that John actually decided to send paralysing waves of grief into Jeremiah. _"The boy would still be alive if I hadn't broken my rule. There wouldn't be blood splattered on that alleyway if I hadn't used my gift for evil."_ John thinks with regret, twirling the handle of his pint with a lazily rhythm.

John sits at the bar, ordering pints, trying to make his memories go away, something he hasn't done since coming back from war.

"I've been calling you." The detective whispers into John's ear, causing the doctor to almost fall of his stool. The appearance of Sherlock is sudden and surprising.

"J'sus Sherloock." The doctor slurs, apparently five pints is too much in a short setting.

"Come along, John." Sherlock says, gripping the man across the waist and pulling him to the door.

_"Why didn't you answer me?" _Sherlock's thought is timid and unassuming, John's mental barriers have broken due to the copious amounts of alcohol in his system. However, the doctor feels a headache coming on, not unusual when the doctor drinks and has a mental conversation.

"Because I didn't want to." John responds, letting Sherlock guide him into a cab that appeared out of nowhere. "I silenced incoming thoughts." The doctor says glumly, letting his head rest against the cool window as the cab makes it's way to Baker Street, his body tense and unwelcoming.

_"You can do that?" _The detective is surprised.

"Well, I did it." John remarks with a snap, finding it hard to stay focused on the conversation, mostly because he is indifferent to the new information.

"That's different, John." Sherlock says out loud, shuffling closer to John's body. The doctor doesn't move when Sherlock wraps an arm around the John's shoulders.

"John, Jeremiah's death isn't your fault." The younger man states confidently, tugging the doctor away from the window. John let's the genius guide him to rest on Sherlock's chest.

_"He didn't react to the calm. You had to use other tactics. You got us out of there alive."_

John just nods, it may be true, it was their last hope, at least Sherlock's anyway.

The soldier thinks back to all of the other times the detective has been in danger and the doctor recalls the only thing that links each situation together.

John always promises himself, anything to keep the detective safe.

It's a reasoning and maybe a weak one at that but it's something, something better than just killing in cold blood. John was protecting Sherlock. John will always protect Sherlock.

Slowly, with the realisation, John starts to accepts the thought, Sherlock would have died if John hadn't acted the way he did. Maybe John could have gone about it differently and maybe Jeremiah would still be alive but the fact of the matter is, John made the quick decision and they are both still alive.

"How do y' do that?" John's voice is all over the place, slurring and hiccuping.

_"Do what?" _

"Make ev'rything so simple and strai-straigh-straight..forward." The doctor stutters out. "In one sen'ence you were able to twist wha' five pints of beer support'd."

_"You already know."_

John tilts his head up, looking at the detective with raised eyebrows.

_"I'm brilliant." _

The drunken doctor giggles and rest his head against his boyfriend's shoulder, suddenly sleepy and a little bit calmer.

"I 'ove yo'." The doctor slurs sleepily.

_"I love you, Dr. Watson."_


	25. A Trick, My Dear Watson

Alrighty then, I've decided on Moriarty having powers, however, a lot of people suggested that his powers would be minimal and I think that idea. I don't think Moriarty would be as 'tame' if he had the same level of powers that John has.

Reviews have been super helpful and as we near the end I just feel so grateful that y'all spent time to write a little something for me, not to mention the fact that all the help and decision making you guys helped me with. UGH, forever in your debt.

Bit of a short one but I couldn't add anything, the next chapter is basically written so it won't be long my lovelies.

Another thing is that a lot of people have commented about my spelling and my grammar and my misuse of words. I really appreciate it because then I can go back and fix it. Joon Creiff pointed out my meter to feet conversion, that's for that. I fixed that in the last chapter. I know nothing about the metric system, but I try.

Also, this is unbeta'd but I go through each posting before it becomes a official so I catch most of the mistakes but not all, thanks to everyone who is pointing them out and helping me become a better editor and writer.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>It's nine o'clock in the evening and John trudges up the stairs with a slow and languid shuffle. His shift at the surgery was brutal, the patients rude and demanding. The doctor is pretty sure half of them were faking it and the other half too sick to care how tetchy they had become.<p>

John prides himself in being a friendly people person, a very tolerant one too, but by the end of the day he was snapping at everyone.

It was the best feeling walking into the London air, eager to get home for multiple reasons.

The most important being, it's their one year anniversary.

John had opened Sherlock's connection immediately after his shift was over but the detective had been been quiet, so John had to commute home in silence.

Now he makes it up the stairs, finally, and his mood has only worsened, the tube was backed up and the people were rude and angry.

When John enters the sitting room, wanting to just bask in Sherlock's company, he finds himself disappointed that the detective is no where to be seen.

"Sherlock!" John calls out into the flat but only silence answers. The doctor sighs with resignation and plops onto the couch, not bothering to take his coat off, not even bothering to make tea, that's how bad John's day had been.

John pushes confusion and wonder into the link. _"Where are you?"_

Sherlock's connection is quiet and John whips out his phone to type a message.

_Where are you? -JW_

He waits seconds before there is a reply.

_It's a surprise - SH_

The doctor stares at the message in confusion. Two things seem weird about the SMS. The first being the fact that Sherlock is actually texting John. The detective hasn't texted the doctor in over a year, there is no need.

_"Maybe he doesn't want to take the chance of ruining the surprise."_ John thinks to himself.

Another thing that seems strange about the text message is the fact that Sherlock is going out of his way to surprise John, and the makes the doctor's heart swell with love.

_When will I know what the surprise is? - JW_

_Soon_

John stares at the text message again, the lack of signature is disturbing, something feels off for the doctor. He sends panic and fear into the connection but nothing comes back. Sherlock would always respond to the emotional code, and yet he didn't.

_Who is this? - JW_

_Ah, the game is up I'm afraid. Bit too obvious was I - M_

John freezes. Moriarty.

Why does the man have Sherlock's mobile?

_Where is Sherlock? - JW_

_I'm afraid he is taking a little nap. - M_

_I swear to god, if you hurt him, I will kill you - JW_

_Your threats are dull - M_

_I'm going to find you - JW_

_I'll make it easy, I heard the pool is being remodeled. We all have such fine memories of the pool, don't we Johnny Boy? - M_

_Midnight?- JW_

_Oh, Johnny you remember! - M_

John throws his mobile against the settee's cushions in a huff. At some point during the conversation, the doctor had risen and started pacing furiously around the room. The telepath tries to dig into Sherlock's brain, breaking through his unconscious slumber, looking for anything that would give confirmation of where the detective is at, or at least confirmation that he is still alive.

John digs deep into the detective's mind, not even coating his intrusion with feelings, just plain digging. Finally, the doctor finds something tangible, a memory. The doctor unfolds the memory like a rolled up piece of paper.

That's when John realises it isn't a memory at all, it's colors. Very faint hues that fade and then sporadically blink in vibrancy, the colors flow into John's brain.

John lets out a huge sigh of relief, the genius is alive but unconscious. The doctor wrings his hands together in anger, relief and sadness. He stares at the clock on the microwave, green numbers glow back at the soldier, their digital lines reading nine forty. He has a little over two hours until he has to meet Moriarty.

The doctor paces across the sitting room, keeping a hold of Sherlock's faint, slumbering colors. There is a lot of reds being passed through the genius's mind and John tries to calm the detective but his unconscious state is deep and the red stays.

John grunts in frustration.

The doctor stares at his phone lying on the couch. He should call Mycroft, the politician could help.

What would happen to Sherlock if Mycroft is called? Would Moriarty kill him?

John stares longingly at the mobile and then turns away with determination. John can't afford to call the elder Holmes, the risk is too great.

Why now? Why today of all days? The doctor paces back and forth, looking at the clock every five seconds.

The clock turns from ten to ten thirty and the blond man can't handle it anymore. John races into their bedroom and grabs the gun in the drawer. He loads it and forces it into his back waistband.

The doctor is shaking as he heads out of the door and off into the night, hoping that they both will make it out alive again.

There is a saying that lightening never strikes the same place twice, yet, John finds himself in a cab, driving back to the pool. A place that they both barely escaped the last time.

* * *

><p>The cab drops him off at the entrance of the building. The outside still looks the same as John remembers but the doctor doesn't stop moving to reminiscence. It's eleven thirty and the doctor walks into the open doors, his gun hugging his back reassuringly as the soldier walks into his living nightmare.<p>

John can senses the blood before he smells the chlorine, it's stronger than last time, filling the doctor's mental nostrils and taste buds with sickening ease. John wrinkles his nose in disgust but pulls out his gun as he zigzags through the lobby and into the actual pool area. The blond man sees the doors, the all too familiar doors, and pushes through them without hesitation. A sudden wave of chlorine hits him and it mixes unpleasantly with the blood whirling around in John's brain.

The soldier scans the interior, his eyes darting to the balcony above and glancing into the water. Several minutes of silence envelope the doctor and John finds himself growing steadily impatient.

"I know you are here Moriarty." John calls into the remodeled pool, the water reflecting off the ceiling, dancing and shimmering with ease.

A clicking of shoes erupts behind John and he turns around rapidly. The Irishman stands in front of him, coming through the door John just entered. The doctor aims his gun directly at Moriarty's head.

"You are early," Moriarty states, raising an eyebrow, "But it is so nice of you to join me."

"Where is Sherlock?" John demands, holding his ground. The man in his Westwood suit, walking gingerly, further into the pool area.

"Safe." Moriarty remarks, his expression cold and neutral, his eyes remain focused on John, something isn't right.

"Safe?" John repeats, quickly scanning the pool area once again, looking for any signs of the detective or Moriarty's goons. It's an oddly vague description and the criminal mastermind likes to brag, he would have told John exactly where the detective is hiding.

"I'm going to be honest, Johnny." Moriarty begins, advancing slowly towards the doctor, ignoring the doctor's question. "We don't have a lot of time."

The Irishman stands directly in front of John, the gun centimeters from Moriarty's chest.

"Where is he?" John commands through gritted teeth, clicking the safety off of the Browning and closing the gap between them. The surge of blood is almost overpowering but John holds his ground.

Suddenly, John's mobile rings, it's shrill song echoing throughout the acoustic walls of the pool.

Both men stare at each other, neither moving, as the mobile continues to ring in John's pocket.

After the third ring, Moriarty lets out a huff of annoyance. "Answer it!" He yells and John flinches. The doctor doesn't waste time and hastily plunges a hand into his pocket, pulling out the mobile and looks briefly at the screen before hitting the answer button.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" John asks timidly, keeping his gun trained on the criminal mastermind. Why is Mycroft calling? Why is Moriarty letting him answer the phone?

"John," Mycroft voice is calm and neutral just as it always has been. "Sherlock is in the A&E."

John takes a step back in shock, and then he stares into Moriarty's eyes. The criminal mastermind's face contorts into a grin. John doesn't say anything, he is frozen in surprise and confusion.

"Surprise." Moriarty mouths at John and the doctor resist the urge to shoot the man.

John doesn't speak, he stares at the obnoxious grin that Moriarty is holding on his face.

"John. John, did you hear me?" Mycroft's voice calls out through the phone, the doctor shakes his head slightly and opens his mouth to speak.

"What?" John's voice is quiet, emotions running across his face and the Irishman watches with menacing glee.

"He is in the hospital, John. Someone mugged him." Mycroft remarks. "They knocked him unconscious, taking his mobile and pocket book."

The doctor shakes his head but keeps his eyes focused on the criminal mastermind who is taking another step forward.

"How come we didn't know about this earlier?" John asks, taking a step back from Moriarty again, scanning the area for exits and/or an ambush. What's the point? Why trick him into coming to the pool?

"Someone dropped him off under John Doe." Mycroft states, "The staff called the police and the bobby recognised him. Gregory called me."

Moriarty never had Sherlock, John walked into a trapped. The doctor sighs into the mobile. Realisations and emotions filtering through him. Moriarty never intended to involve Sherlock, only get him out of the way so John could be tricked into coming alone.

"What's the timeline?" John questions, wondering how long Sherlock has been unconscious.

"The timeline?" Mycroft repeats, confusion creeping into his voice. "John, where are you?" Of course the elder Holmes would notice something is wrong. John looks up to Moriarty who is shaking his head. The lunatic looks down to John's chest and the doctor's gaze follows. A small red dot appears right over John's heart. The soldier scowls and lifts his head up again.

"How long has he been unconscious?" John inquiries, his voice suddenly firm and determined.

"He was dropped off about five minutes to nine. He hasn't woken up since." Mycroft states, his voice no longer neutral. "Where are you, John?" The elder Holmes's voice is suspicious.

"Are you there? Are you at the hospital?" John ignores Mycroft's questions, just hoping that Sherlock won't wake up alone

"Gregory is, I'm on my way, why? John what's going on?" Mycroft asks again, his voice growing slightly panicked.

"I can't explain. Just tell Sherlock I'm sorry." John resigns pulling the phone away from his ear.

He can hear the elder Holmes calling out for him but John ends the call and places his mobile back in his pocket. John looks down and sighs, feeling like a complete idiot.

"You never had him." The doctor states looking back up at Moriarty, the man before him shaking his head with a smile.

"Nope!" The Irishman cheers gleefully, closing the gap between them, John grips his gun tighter and straightens his stance. He may have walked into a trap but there is no way he is leaving now with Moriarty still alive.

"I can kill you know." John remarks, his knuckles white and his face determined.

"No, I don't think so." Moriarty responds nodding towards the red dot on John's chest. "Seb will not hesitate."

"But then you will be dead." John states, gripping the gun harder.

The two men stare at each other. John working up the courage to shoot Moriarty and the criminal mastermind analysing the doctor. Minutes pass and suddenly Moriarty speaks.

"You nobility is dull." Moriarty sighs, turning his back to the soldier and waves a hand in the air. John watches with surprise at the retreating form of Moriarty. A sudden pain in the doctor's neck causes John to falter. While still holding the gun with one hand, another hand flies to his neck. Moriarty turns to face John, a smirk on his face.

Soft strands of material meet the pads of the doctor's fingers. With a pull, John yanks out the dart and stares at it, it's red and white tube glistening like the blood he can't get away from, plaguing the doctor's mind and thoughts. John shakes his head, his eyes are already starting to go fuzzy. Abruptly, John's legs buckle, causing the doctor to fall to the tile floor.

John's knees hit the ground hard and with a loud thud. The soldier tries to aim his gun at Moriarty but the Irishman has moved closer once again, extending his arm in the process and batting the gun away. It flies out of John's grasp, clattering to the ground and sliding away. The sound of metal scraping tile reverberates loudly into John's ears.

The doctor is breathing heavy, his thoughts are jumbled, the blood is all consuming and Moriarty's face is now directly in front of him. John tries to focus on the face but his vision is blurring, things that use to be clear are now fuzzy and moving in an out of focus. The soldier closes his eyes, trying to stop the headache forming and willing Moriarty's blood senses to go away.

"I expected more out of a soldier." Moriarty says, crouching in front of the drugged doctor. John's eyes snap open and his face twists in confusion, his head hurts, his vision is blurred and the smell of blood is starting to make the doctor gag. John lists forward, he extends his hands instinctively and they catch the doctor, but under John's drugged weight and his hands collapse and John plummets to the floor. The telepath's bad shoulder connects with the floor hard and John lets out a pained gasp.

The doctor rolls onto his back, trying to get away from Moriarty and sit up at the same time. A sudden hand is placed upon his chest, the weight forcing John to remain on the ground. The doctor writhes and struggles but nothing happens.

He is going to pass out, John knows it, he can feel every muscle in his body growing weaker. He wants to say something, anything snide and degrading but his mouth isn't working. Nothing is responding to his bodily pleas.

A hand brushes across his chest softly. John shudders and tries to move away but his body doesn't answer.

"I can't wait for Sherlock to visit later, once you've begged him to rescue you." Moriarty whispers into John's ear, his hand brushing leisurely on John's clothed torso. The doctor attempts to flinch away from the hot breath, it only comes out as a weak tremble.

"No." John whimpers, his head lolling and his eyes closing. He hears Moriarty laughing. He feels the cold tile beneath him. He smells the chlorine.

But the last thing John notices is far worse than the laughing or the tile or even the chlorine. The last thing John observes before the drug knocks him out is the blood. It's presence mixing in with all of John's senses, the metallic smell, the copper taste, the sticky feeling.

It is everywhere and as John falls deep into a drug induced slumber, all he dreams are about blood. He can't get away from it and it's never ending flow.


	26. The Stairwell of Doom

Guess what? Lestrade is going to find out about John this chapter.

This chapter was super intense, my goodness.

Keep coming with the reviews. They are amazing and helpful.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>Sherlock's head hurts, it throbs painfully and its interfering with his mind, his thoughts, his deductions.<p>

Why is he here?

Where is John?

It's been fourteen hours since the detective's been admitted to the A&E. Sherlock was unconscious for the first thirteen and half of them. His face smarts and there is a gigantic bruise over his cheek.

The detective spent the first ten minutes of his wakefulness trying to remember his attacker. His brain wouldn't cooperate and Sherlock almost tore his hair out in frustration. The doctors told him it was a slight version of amnesia. Like knowing that fact was suppose to calm the genius.

Sherlock huffed and demanded they leave, calling them all idiots.

The detective is anything but calm. He is mysteriously in the hospital and no one knows why. He doesn't have his mobile or his pocket book anymore and John is not by his side.

And no one is telling him anything.

He pushes thoughts at John, trying to figure out where the doctor is currently located. The older man is not returning any of Sherlock's transmitting thoughts and that worries the detective.

_"Maybe John is angry with me?"_ Sherlock thinks, suddenly and irrationally worried. It was their anniversary last night and Sherlock had a huge surprise planned.

_"No, John wouldn't hold a grudge if it was so obviously not my fault."_ Sherlock reassures himself. _"Would he?"_

Although, Angelo might be a tad tetchy the next time he sees the restaurant owner. Sherlock had rented out the entire restaurant for a surprise, a nice quiet dinner.

The detective's eyes are closed and his head is tilted to the ceiling, pushing thoughts to John, who is still not responding. The detective has to get out of here.

The door creaks open but Sherlock doesn't move, his thoughts running wild. Escape schemes and attempts are being mapped out in Sherlock's brain as the visitor walks further into the room.

Sherlock doesn't even have to open his eyes to know who the new occupant is. The clicking of the shoes and the smell of cologne screams Mycroft.

The younger man is not really in the mood for a visit with his older brother and he sighs with annoyance.

A thought races across Sherlock's brain.

"You know where John is." The detective states, a demand. The younger man opens one eye to gaze at the older Holmes.

Mycroft sighs as he sits down next to Sherlock, gripping his umbrella and placing it across his knees. Mycroft purposely doesn't look at the detective, making his face neutral and not letting anything away.

However, the lack of eye contact tells the detective more than Mycroft's face could ever show.

"Moriarty has him." Sherlock breathes, his insides on fire. Emotions and feelings, memories and thoughts scream inside Sherlock's brain, running a mile a minute, but Sherlock's face remains neutral and plain.

"Yes." is Mycroft's simple answer, looking his brother in the face. The genius gazes into his older brother's eyes, he sees a flash of guilt.

"You were talking with him." Sherlock deadpans, trying to push the emotions away and focus on the evidence.

"I was." The elder Holmes says.

"What happened?" Sherlock resists the urge to scream at Mycroft, to blame the older man for letting John get kidnapped.

"We found out you were in the hospital, under a John Doe," Mycroft begins, "I called John and he was acting strange."

"Strange how?" Sherlock questions, closing his eyes and trying to picture the conversation.

"He asked for the timeline." Mycroft remarks, raising his eyebrows lightly.

"The timeline?" Sherlock's thoughts are spinning. The doctor didn't ask immediately if he was all right, he went straight for the time of events.

"He was tricked into meeting with Moriarty." Sherlock deduces.

"That's what I assumed." Mycroft states.

"John thought Moriarty had me." The detective continues. "The whole point of the emotional code is for the two of us to communicate. That would have been John's first step." Sherlock adds, "Except, the I wasn't responding because I was unconscious. John had assume that Moriarty really captured me."

"He asked because he wanted to make sure that Moriarty never had you." Mycroft finishes.

Sherlock nods.

"Why wouldn't he call me?" The politician questions.

Sherlock contemplates the inquiry. If John willingly went to Moriarty, it was to protect Sherlock.

"John wouldn't risk it," Sherlock comments, steepling the fingers under his chin. "He wouldn't risk Moriarty hurting myself."

Mycroft sighs.

"Moriarty's men mugged me." Sherlock deduces, "It's too much of a coincidence."

"Yes. We've caught them." Mycroft answers, "Low level thugs, completely disposable."

The detective nods. "Where is he?" Sherlock asks.

Mycroft sighs with resignation. "CCTV follows John from the flat to a swimming pool in-"

"We've met Moriarty there once, a long time ago." Sherlock states hurriedly. Of course Moriarty would chose to met there, the evil bastard.

The pair remains silent for a moment and Sherlock tries pushing thoughts into the doctor's mind, but still, silence is the only thing that answers.

"He isn't answering back," Sherlock states out loud, staring into the distance. "This means one of two things. He is unconscious or-" Sherlock stops himself suddenly. John dead? Not possible, completely and utterly impossible.

"Moriarty wouldn't kill him." Mycroft says bluntly, trying his best to reassure the detective.

"No. No he wouldn't." The genius states dismissively.

"He is too much of an asset to throw away, Sherlock." Mycroft states firmly and the detective looks at his older brother. The older man's face is firm and determined causing Sherlock to immediately trust his brother's word.

"Yes." The younger man replies.

Suddenly, Sherlock feels the relieving and familiar poking in his brain.

"John." The detective says out loud and Mycroft stares at the younger Holmes with curiosity.

"I can feel him." Sherlock exclaims, his eyes focused but his face happy with relief.

Just as suddenly as the connection happens, it stops again.

"He pulled out," Sherlock says with dread.

The detective does not give up easy, he pushes his thoughts into the doctor.

Sherlock's thoughts are shamelessly desperate but the detective continues on regardless.

_"John. Where are you?" _

_"John, answer me."_

_"Are you hurt?"_

The connection is silent so Sherlock continues pushing, filling his brain with the small poking and he sighs in relief.

A wave of contentment is pushed into Sherlock and the detective calms slightly.

"He isn't hurt." Sherlock says out loud and the connection is lost again. Why does it fade in and out? Is the doctor really hurt? Is he controlling?

_"John. You're fine?" _

_"Where are you?" _

_"Why aren't you answering me?" _

_"John."_

_"John."_

__John remains silent and the detective is growing panicked and even more desperate then before.

"He's protecting me, Mycroft." The detective cries looking to his brother with anguished eyes.

For the next several minutes, Sherlock sends thought after thought.

_"John."_

_"Please, answer me."_

_"Where are you?"_

None of these thoughts break through the doctor's resolve. Sherlock stops, hanging his head with defeat and tries to think.

"He's not letting me in, either Moriarty threatened him or myself." Sherlock mumbles, ignoring Mycroft's form.

A sudden wave of pain hits Sherlock, making the detective's eyes squeeze shut and the genius's hands to fly to his head, gripping his hair for an anchor.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft inquiries, standing up and approaching Sherlock's bed.

"He's hurting him." The detective announces through gritted teeth.

"He's connected again?" The politician asks, his hands ghosting over his younger brother.

"No, it happens sometimes when the pain is strong, the connection will open up on it's own between us and emotions with filter through briefly." Sherlock states, the pain subsiding quietly.

Sherlock forces himself into silence, asking himself one question. _"Where would Moriarty take John?"_

The criminal mastermind is sentimental, even if he won't admit it, why else would he meet John at the swimming pool?

Sherlock also knows that Moriarty expects him to be unpredictable and entertaining. Wherever they are, Sherlock will have to go through obstacles to get to John. Where would Moriarty take John that would hold sentimental value?

"I know where they are." Sherlock says suddenly, turning to face Mycroft.

The politician raises an eyebrow.

"No time to explain brother, I need to leave now." Sherlock states flying out of bed, grabbing his clothes out of one of the cupboards.

The genius strips off his dressing gown and hastily starts to dress.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warns, walking over to his younger brother, placing a hand on Sherlock.

"Mycroft, they are hurting him, I can feel it." Sherlock cries with distraught. "I don't have a lot of time to save him."

Mycroft looks at the detective with a twinge of pity but takes his hand off the younger man's forearm.

A knock on the door interrupts the Holmes brothers, a man walks into the room.

"Lestrade." Sherlock states slightly panicked, the DI doesn't know about John and Sherlock doesn't have time to beat around the bush.

The politician sighs. "Gregory."

The DI stares back at them both suspiciously, feeling unwelcomed but suddenly too angry to care. Sherlock arms are raised, pulling on his shirt.

"Sherlock, you were just mugged, you can't just go gallivanting off." The DI shouts, knowing an escape attempt when he sees one.

_"John, I'm coming, hang on." _Sherlock pushes at the doctor before answering Lestrade.

"Gregory, this is important." The politician says reassuringly, beating Sherlock to a response. The elder Holmes turns his attention to the Inspector, staring into Greg's eyes.

Sherlock continues to dress, ignoring their conversation.

"You too, Mycroft." The DI says sadly, looking back at the older man.

"You know me, love," Mycroft pleads, "you know when something is important." The politician is standing in front of Greg now, looking into his eyes with conviction.

"What's going on, My?" Lestrade asks quietly, trying to understand.

"John's in trouble." The elder Holmes responds.

"I gathered that much." The DI says huffily, watching as Sherlock grabs his trousers off the bed.

A sudden rush of defiant unhappiness hits the detective, Sherlock automatically interprets it. _"Definitely not, you are not coming here."_

The emotions are strong and paralysing and Sherlock cries out. The genius lists forward and falls onto the hospital bed. Lestrade and Mycroft had stopped their conversation at the detective's sound and watch silently as the younger man topples over.

"This is what I'm talking about, Mycroft." Lestrade shouts, flailing in arm in Sherlock's general direction.

Sherlock can feel John panicking through the connection, he can feel the throbbing pain.

"Sherlock." The elder Holmes raises an eyebrow worriedly.

The detective shakes his head, trying to move.

"He's not happy." Sherlock states throwing all pretenses out the window, his only focus is the doctor. Through gritted teeth, the detective stands pulling his trousers up slowly. John's forced emotions are making him slow, practically paralysing the genius.

"Who's not happy?" Lestrade demands, looking between each of the Holmes brothers.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock, whose eyes are blurred slightly and his thoughts are only focused on John and trying to get his pants on quickly as possible.

Sherlock finally pulls his pants up and heads to the door.

The DI stands in front of it, blocking the exit.

Another wave of unhappiness hits the genius and his hands fly to his head, pushing at his temples.

"Sherlock. What's going on?" Lestrade asks worriedly, crouching down to look into the detective's lowered eyes.

"I don't have time for this Mycroft." The detective yells angrily.

"Greg, let him through, I'll explain it on the way." Mycroft states, grabbing the DI's arm trying to pull him gently out of the way.

_"I've narrowed it down, I'm on my way."_ The detective pushes to the doctor, his eyebrow's knitted and his teeth clenched.

"John's life is in danger?" Lestrade's questions but doesn't move.

Irrational fear strikes Sherlock, tearing his brain apart. The detective doubles over just as another wave of grief sets in.

"God damnit, yes." Sherlock shouts and Lestrade looks at the detective worried for a few seconds before moving from the door.

"I'm coming with you." The DI commands and looks to Mycroft. The politician nods and walks over to his younger brother.

"Ugh, Mycroft, he's afraid or at least trying to stop me with emotions." The detective bites out and Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock's back, concerned at the turmoil his younger brother is experiencing.

"Let's go." The politician says and opens the door. Mycroft leans down, gripping one of Sherlock's arms and throwing it over his own shoulder, leading the emotionally crippled genius out of the room. Lestrade follows and pulls the door closed.

"He's trying to stop me from finding him." The detective states, moving a little faster but still hanging onto his brother. The three men jogging down the hallway.

They turn the corner and Lestrade pushes the door to the stairwell open, Sherlock moves away from his brother and flies down the stairs.

A sudden wave of grief hits the detective, making Sherlock grip the railing hard. The genius lunges forward and Mycroft grabs the detective's shirt, preventing the younger man from falling down the stairs.

The politician pulls Sherlock back and the genius grips the railing hard, listing forward slightly and his knees buckling. Mycroft hangs on and props the detective against the adjacent wall.

"Sherlock?" The politician ask worriedly, gripping the younger man's shoulders to steady him. Lestrade is right behind them, looking on with confusion.

Tears are streaming down the genius's face as the despair and grief surround him. It feel as if his heart is going to explode. The pain from the grief is paralysing, probably just how John intends it to be.

"He's desperate," Sherlock sobs, his knuckles white from gripping the railing.

_"John, stop that."_ Sherlock transmits and he feels a light poking in his brain, but the emotions don't stop.

Mycroft grabs the younger man, tucking himself underneath Sherlock's arm, helping Sherlock to walk.

"Gregory, grab his other side." The Inspector obeys quietly and moves Sherlock's other arm to wrap around the DI's shoulder.

Mycroft and Lestrade guide the detective down the stairs carefully but hastily as the detective sobs and cringes with fear.

_"I'm coming to get you and that's final."_ Sherlock sends and adds definite smugness, as the three men continue down the stairs.

"He panicking." Sherlock states through gritted teeth, new emotions are filtering through his brain.

"Come on, Mycroft, move it." The detective suddenly yells, anger coursing through him, along with more tears.

"He's...trying to...get me...to stop..." The genius snaps with a stutter.

"JOHNATHAN!" Sherlock screams out loud, his baritone echoing throughout the staircase, just as the three men make it to the landing on the first floor. The detective doubles over again and Mycroft and Lestrade are forced to lean too. The politician grips the detective's chest, steadying him.

"Sherlock." Lestrade calls, crouching in front of the genius.

_"JOHNATHAN!"_ Sherlock yells into the connection. The detective is breathing heavy and his eyes are screwed shut.

Suddenly, the emotions stop and Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"He stopped." Sherlock calls out, placing his hands on his knees, catching his breath before straightening up to see Mycroft and Lestrade's worried expressions.

Abrupt shame, grief and regret hit the detective. _"I'm sorry."_

"No. No, No. No." Sherlock calls out loud, moving towards the exit of the stairwell.

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft yells.

The detective's knees buckle as the calm feeling starts.

"SHITE!" Sherlock calls hitting the floor. "Check the warehouses that we were injured in." The detective gasps out, falling forward in the process. The politician catches him and guides him gently to the ground, Sherlock passing out completely.

The politician whips out his phone while looking frantically at the detective.

The DI remains standing, staring at the scene.

"What in the bloody hell is going on?" The DI demands, looking between the two Holmes brothers in confusion.

"I will explain later, Gregory." Mycroft says hurriedly, "Help me get him to the sedan."

* * *

><p>Wow, that chapter was intense.<p> 


	27. The Torturing of John Watson

Oh my, here it is.

Moriarty has powers, and for those who didn't want that, I made it a little easier. Moriarty's powers are very limited.

I'm also afraid that the Reverse Reichenbach idea has gained a crap ton of votes.

I hope that's not terribly disappointing. I'll make it better by having the time John is away done to a year or less.

The reunion will probably happen in the sequel.

For this story, I'm almost done, a couple of chapters more.

Next chapter, we are going to see Sherlock's view of this scene.

What do you think?

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>It's bright. That's all the doctor can register, even with his eyes closed. The light filters through his eyelids and John lowers his head to get away from the intruding light.<p>

The soldier contemplates opening his eyes but the pain in his head stops him. John tries to probe his exterior, looking for any wounds.

The doctor doesn't feel any dried blood on his skin, so the painful throbbing must be an after effect of the drug.

_"Fantastic."_ John thinks bitterly.

He wonders idly what the drug had been. Why would Moriarty use it in the first place?

His curiosity is slowing creeping and the doctor opens his eyes slightly. The blinding undimmed light of the room hurts his eyes. John squints, trying to adjust himself to the luminous room. Through his adjustment phase, the soldier immediately catalogs the area through half-lidded eyes.

The walls are white and bare, just like the rest of the medium-sized room. John is on the only piece of furniture visibly, a hard, wooden chair.

The doctor struggles briefly against the restraints, a thick rope is wrapped intricately around his wrists, it's knot military and professional. It prevents John from getting the right leverage to break his thumb or struggle out of it.

The soldier remains calm, trying to sense minds outside the closed door, nothing greets him and he sighs with defeat.

Where is he?

No smell of chlorine hits the detective, they must be away from the pool. All John can sense is the faint smell of blood, which means Moriarty is close.

Why is he here?

John seeks out Sherlock's connection, finding it swiftly and opening the bond without thinking. He starts to think of the emotional code and how to communicate his location before suddenly stopping.

Moriarty's words echo throughout the doctor's memories.

_"I can't wait for Sherlock to visit later, once you've begged him to rescue you."_

The doctor panics and stops thinking.

_"Moriarty knows." _John declares to himself_ "and he wants me to call for Sherlock." _The doctor thinks with disgust, shuddering as he remembers the lasting touches of Moriarty's hands on his chest.

Moriarty wants Sherlock to show up and he intends for John to lead the detective right to them.

John is many things, a puppet is not one of them, not willingly anyway.

The soldier breaks the connection with rapid ease, protecting the detective, not wanting Sherlock to find wherever Moriarty is holding him.

It's too late, Sherlock already recognised John's intrusion. It isn't long before the telepath is bombarded with mental questions that he can't answer, protecting the genius in the long run.

_"John. Where are you?" _The detective is desperate, his thought is pushed forcibly into John's brain but the doctor doesn't, can't respond.

_"John, answer me."_

_"Are you hurt?"_

John is breaking, Sherlock's thoughts are getting more panicked and the turmoil is slowly causing John's resolve to crumble, so he sends one emotion.

John finds the lilac and honey and briefly opens the bond, sending one emotion. Contentment. _"I'm not hurt." _

He owes the detective that much, a peace of mind.

John is out of the bond again and locking his self-control in place, shutting the door firmly. The doctor can't afford to let Sherlock into his thoughts again, even though he wants to desperately ask how the genius is? Where was he hurt? How long was he out for? Is he okay now?

But the doctor can't, his jingles his self-control door making sure it's locked tight.

However, that doesn't stop Sherlock from pushing his own thoughts.

_"John. You're fine?" _

_"Where are you?" _

_"Why aren't you answering me?" _

_"John."_

_"John."_

The soldier ignores the genius, focusing on a plan to get out.

After several minutes, the detective stops pushing his frantic inquiries and John sighs in relief. The doctor is left in silence, a discomforting alternative to Sherlock's persistence but it keeps the detective safe and John's resolve intact.

Nothing happens for a few minutes until John's nose wrinkles subconsciously.

The smell is obnoxiousness and suddenly more prevalent, causing John to focus on not vomiting and putting Sherlock's silence on the back burner._  
><em>

The doctor smells the criminal mastermind long before Moriarty actually walks into the room.

Blood integrates with John's thoughts and feelings. It's intense, metal smell fills John's nostrils and it's sickly bitter taste rests uncomfortably on John's mental taste buds.

The doctor opens his mouth to breath, hoping the smell of blood will dissipate, even though it's unlikely.

The soldier struggles briefly, trying to get away from the copious amount of blood senses. Physically trying to make it go away. John doesn't dare make a mental connection with the man, the blood is already too much, John doesn't want it to get any worse.

Plus, there is nothing to gain, the last time John connected with Moriarty and got past the blood, the mastermind's thoughts were vacant. John's power is useless against the Irishman.

The door creaks open and John stills his body, his restrained arms going slack against the tight ropes. The small Irishman saunters into the white room, his steps springy and calculated.

The man is excited and John resists the urge to spit nasty, degrading comments at the disgusting creature in front of him.

"Good Morning, Johnny!" Moriarty exclaims, clapping his hands together greedily, an evil leer on his face.

"Moriarty." John remarks with contempt, straightening with confidence and disinterest.

The suited man walks closer to the doctor, the blood growing stronger with each advancing step.

"Sherlock isn't here yet." Moriarty remarks in a mock sadness. "I thought you would have called for help already."

"What do you want?" John questions, ignoring the evil man, subconsciously trying to back away from the approaching incorporeal, metallic crimson.

"Dull, you always ask that question." is Moriarty's answer, his footsteps stopping suddenly and his head cocking to one side, studying the doctor.

"I believe the last time I was in this situation my question was 'Why are you here?'," John remarks snidely, "It's technically different." The doctor turns his head away in boredom.

The consulting criminal raises his eyebrows and chuckles slightly.

"You have a good memory, Johnny." Moriarty comments, starting to come closer again. John inhales and exhales with force, the copper taste on his actual tongue.

The doctor shrugs in response, still not looking at the Irish genius.

"Why am I here? What do you want?" John asks again, this time with determination.

Moriarty doesn't answer, he stares at John with intense eyes and a hard expression. The doctor, once he figures out he isn't going to get a response, goes back to analysing the room.

"I know." Moriarty states bluntly, the doctor's eyes whip to find Moriarty standing mere centimeters in front of John. The doctor is breathing with shallow inhales, the blood intense and making him dizzy.

"You know what?" The doctor states lazily, trying to keep his face as neutral and unassuming as possible.

Moriarty narrows his eyes with contemplation, advancing another centimeter. "I know _this_." The criminal mastermind remarks and in a sudden movement, Moriarty's finger is pushing onto John's forehead.

The doctor erupts in pain, whimpering uncontrollably as the blood intensifies making John gag on the smell, the taste, the encompassing blood.

John tries to shake the finger off his forehead, thrashing his head side to side, trying to dislodge the offending touch.

"Stop." John calls firmly, images beginning to flow from deep within John's mind. The doctor starts to see red and then short burst of sand mixes with the flowing red.

"STOP!" John yells and pushes himself back, the force of his movement sends him careening backwards, swiftly breaking Moriarty's connection and causing the wooden chair to clamber backwards.

The doctor lands on his back, jamming his fingers in between the hard surface of the chair and the cement flooring. John yells as the sharp pain emits from his limbs.

As the telepath thuds to the floor, John's breathing is laboured, his exhales shaky and heavy. John tries to roll to the side but the chair prevents him.

Moriarty's face is suddenly in the doctor's space, causing him to flinch backwards, shuffling the unrelenting wood to squish his fingers more. John grits his teeth at the discomforting pain.

"Well," Moriarty starts, crouching next to John. "That must be uncomfortable."

John turns his head to the side, his headache worse and the overwhelming presence of blood causing more of a discomfort than being on the ground.

"Now, Johnny." Moriarty scolds at the doctor's apparent disgust. "It isn't-"

"How do you know?" The doctor ask bluntly, not caring about interrupting the criminal. Moriarty raises his eyebrows and laughs. An eerily, unsettling laugh that hurts John's ears and causes his head to throb. The consulting criminal stands up languidly, pacing absentmindedly and lazily around the room, occasionally looking at the doctor struggling on the floor.

"It's a secret." Moriarty whispers gleefully after a few minutes.

"Who am I going to tell? I'm not leaving this room alive, we both know that." John remarks confidently, the compression from the doctor's weight and the angle of his arms making John's limbs tingle with numbing sensations.

Moriarty seems to contemplate John's comment with a narrow concentration. "What makes you think you aren't leaving here alive?" Moriarty challenges.

The doctor is taken aback, the question is shocking. John honestly thinks this is the end game, the final battle, and Moriarty is definitely at an advantage. It's not as if John has given up, he is just accepting Moriarty's reality.

"Come on," John states finally, raising his eyebrows at Moriarty. "Do you really intend on keeping me alive?"

Now it's Moriarty's time for a challenging question. "No, I suppose not." The soldier is calm at Moriarty's realisation, even though the criminal mastermind just verbalised John's death sentence.

"So, there is no harm in telling me then." John comments, wiggling slightly trying to reposition himself, the wooden back of the chair digging into his arms and back painfully.

"I died." Moriarty states bluntly, looking directly at John's face. The doctor ceases movement and stares back at the criminal mastermind. To anybody else, this statement would have been confusing but John knows the full reason behind Moriarty's comment.

John doesn't say anything, he stares in shock, even when Moriarty starts to move towards the telepath, crouching down again.

The doctor flinches away but Moriarty is too fast, a hand is cupping John's neck firmly and a finger is placed on his forehead.

John's head explodes, he can literally see the river of blood flowing, intertwining with his thoughts, tainting his memories.

An image that John doesn't recognise floats across his mind. The doctor latches onto it, hoping for relief from the blood presence. As the memory becomes clear, John is bombarded with more blood, a unfathomable amount. The doctor thrashes and pushes the thought away, but the memory stays planted, playing for the doctor against his will.

The soldier closes his eyes in pain, his headache erupting in agony and the unfamiliar memory breaking his control.

The memory is simple, John is seeing the image through the memory holder's own eyes. The brick beneath the owner's feet, his shoes clicking and walking fast.

John breathing is erratic as the memory unfolds. Suddenly the image in John's mind fills with panic, John's emotions are mixing with the strong memory.

"Stop." John shouts.

"No, you will feel how I died." Moriarty whispers into John's ear, causing the doctor to loll his head away from the voice. It didn't even occur to the doctor that it was Moriarty's image that he is seeing, that how bad the blood and powerful memory is messing with the blond's deduction skills, what little John actually picked up from the detective.

Suddenly, John stops breathing, non-physical hands are around the doctor's neck cutting off his air supply. John is watching Moriarty's memory with apt interest.

Moriarty is no long walking, he is pushed against a wall, staring his attacker in the face. The man's face is hidden in shadow and John can't focus on anything. The hands that were once on Moriarty's neck are now on John's, the vision blending with reality.

John gasps and struggles, trying to get out of Moriarty's grip. The doctor is suffocating and he begins to see black spots dancing on the outside of his vision.

Choked sounds emit from John's throats, he pleads shamelessly but the memory becomes stronger and soon John passes out from lack of oxygen, not before hearing Moriarty's evil laugh.

* * *

><p>He wakes a couple minutes later, the bodiless hands gone along with Moriarty's forced tactile contact.<p>

It takes a couple more seconds for the telepath to realise that his chair had been set upright, relieving the pressure in his back and limbs, the doctor sighs internally with relief, his breathing still irregular.

It takes another minute or so, but John finally is able to get his breathing calm and readjusted for air intake. John can still feel the squeezing hands on his neck and panics slightly at how strong Moriarty's flashback was, how it was able to claim John and make him witness the actual feeling of the criminal mastermind dying.

The doctor shudders at the power and tries to shake the horrible memory out of his head.

John coughs suddenly, his throat sore and scratchy.

"My heart stopped beating and my attacker took my belongings." Moriarty states and John opens his eyes, looking tiredly for the criminal mastermind. The Irishman stands against the far wall, just beside the door, leaning against it with comfort.

"Huh? You? Caught in a mugging?" John tries to reply with a smarmy tone but his wheezing and deep voice botches the attempt. Instead John's voice is quiet and weak, the soldier noting the morbid irony between Moriarty's flashback and the reason Sherlock is currently safe.

The doctor coughs again, long and deep to clear the hoarseness of his voice. "How pedestrian."

The criminal doesn't respond verbally, but his face twists momentarily in a scowl before smoothing out and continuing. "The woman who found me gave me CPR and after a couple of minutes my heart started again," is how Moriarty responds, ignoring the doctor's comment.

"I lived." Moriarty exclaims brightly. "Although, my brain was never really the same." The criminal adds looking straight at John with a devilish smile. John's eyes perk up and the thought comes to him. Moriarty has an ability.

John stares in shock, he just thought the mastermind was powerful, not necessarily capable of having a gift. The realisation sends shivers down John's back.

"You have a gift." John states, his voice gaining it's usual tone back. The criminal mastermind just stares at John with a insatiable grin.

"I do." The Irishman smiles.

It explains everything, the powerful reach of Moriarty's mind, the ability to subdue John with the evil man's thoughts, the blood.

John's head reels, the doctor has never met another person with a power. The feeling is strange and unnerving. This is a bit not good.

No wonder the man has a criminal organization so vast.

The doctor, despite the dangerous situation, is extremely curious. What can the criminal mastermind do? How powerful is he? Can he control emotions like himself?

John stops with his internal question, his eyes find Moriarty who his grinning with pleasure. The look is sickening and John realises he doesn't want to know. The doctor does not want to be in Moriarty's head more than necessary, if not at all.

"I find you intriguing Johnny." Moriarty says playfully interrupting John's thoughts, moving closer to the doctor. "Granted your nobility is dull and frankly worthless, but your telepathy makes up for it."

Moriarty's blatant proclamation of John's ability causes the doctor stiffens, not willing to agree or deny Moriarty's suspicions, even though John knows it's useless. The criminal mastermind already knows, isn't John just wasting energy by reveling in denial?

"You know, Johnny, I'm a genius and I have a powerful gift." Moriarty states, gazing upon the soldier. "But, your mind, it's extravagant and complex. Your gift is extraordinary and even more powerful than mine." The suited man's tone is slightly sad but something bright and calculating flickers in the mastermind's eyes.

John is too shocked from the situation to respond. He stares back at the Irishman and remains wordless, cataloging Moriarty's look and confession.

"I know all about you Johnny dearest." Moriarty continues, ignoring John's speechlessness.

"How?" John sputters clumsily.

"Oh come now, another telepath running around London and you don't expect me to keep tabs." Moriarty exclaims.

"You can read minds?" The doctor asks stupidly and Moriarty laughs.

"Yes, although, that is the only thing I can do." The mastermind remarks. "And I can't read yours." Moriarty adds, his expression full of curiosity.

John reels. Moriarty can read his thoughts. Why? And why can't John read Moriarty's thoughts? Is it important?

_"Of course it's bloody well important, Watson."_ John accosts himself. _"You are in the presence of another telepath and neither of you can read each others' mind._"

John realises that if Moriarty can't read his mind then that Irishman doesn't know that he smells like blood, he doesn't know how powerful he really is, how easily he captivates the doctor. And John is not going to be the one to tell him.

"Unlike you, Johnny." Moriarty continues, suspending John's thoughts.

"I, however, know about your white noise, which you've expanded the range significantly. It's silent right now, isn't it?" Moriarty observes.

John is alarmed, he didn't even register it, of course the doctor and his detective have been working on the range and it's proven successful. Through practice, John's white noise has the ability to be silenced within the proximity of London. If Sherlock is in London, John's white noise is silent.

Which means John is still in London. The thought causes hope for the doctor, but John keeps his face neutral, not giving anything away.

"I'll take that as a yes." Moriarty chuckles, pacing around the room with slow steps, circling the doctor like a vulture.

"I also know that you can control people's emotions." Moriarty continues, his tone is quiet and beguiling, dripping with hypnotic charm.

The doctor doesn't say anything, Moriarty paces behind him and John stares forward, not willing to give in to the lunatic.

"Which begs the question, how come I'm still standing and not on the floor in a coma?" Moriarty purrs. "Surely, your self-control isn't that noble."

The Irishman drags a hand across the back of John's shoulders, causing the doctor to stiffen and shiver at the same time.

John is confused, the man is messing with him, showing his true evil. John remains quiet, focusing on not answering, blood encasing John and the doctor has to force the bile down.

A hand suddenly cups John's chin, forcing the doctor to tilt his head back.

John's eyes immediately close at the forced memories and onslaught of blood.

A dead soldier lay in front of John, the sand stained crimson and the soldier's mouth moving with inaudible pleas.

"Am I special, Johnny? Or do you just like me too much to put me in a coma?" The doctor can hear Moriarty's faint enticements but John can't respond, he is focused on the dead soldier. John tries to go to him but the doctor can't move, something is immobilising him. Fear? Anxiety?

John looks down to see his feet sinking into the bloody sand. The doctor is actually stuck. John looks to the soldier with panicked eyes, he tries struggling out of the sand but to no avail. He has to watch the soldier die, his blood mixing with the sand blood.

The hand is gone and John's head snaps forward, Moriarty laughs but the image doesn't dissipate.

John turns his head and throws up onto the white floor.

His nose is running freely and the blood mixing with his vomit.

Moriarty is torturing him. The lunatic is using his own powers to manipulate the doctor, showing John distorted images. John recognised that soldier but the memory was altered, obviously. John, originally, had saved that boy, Private Stanley Lowell, barely nineteen. He has a sister and two younger brothers.

The altered memory is tugging at John's mind. How is Moriarty doing this? How is he manipulating John's memories?

John is a army doctor, a soldier, someone who knows how to resist torturing techniques and that's exactly what John intends to do, resist Moriarty's torture to the best of his ability.

But, the army never prepared him for this, they never prepared him for mental warfare.

John's breathing is heavy but the soldier sits up straight, with new determination, John lifts his head and finds Moriarty grinning like mad.

"Oh, Captain Watson has come out to play." Moriarty exclaims, wringing his hands together in elation. John glares at the Irishman, his face taunt and unrelenting.

_"John, I'm coming, hang on." _

Sherlock thought is sudden and practically catches John off guard, the detective had been so silent up until this point that John almost forgot about him, almost.

The doctor panics slightly, the detective can't come, that exactly what Moriarty wants. He doesn't physically move but he sends waves and waves of paralyzing, defiant unhappiness to the genius, hoping to stop Sherlock long enough to be safe. _"Definitely not, you are not coming here." _

John sends the emotional code over and over, hoping that the detective understand the gravity of the situation.

_"I've narrowed it down. I'm on my way."_

John's face must have showed something, because Moriarty's grin widen.

"Sherlock's on his way then?" The Dublin man questions but John turns his head in disgust, his throat scratchy and his mouth tastes like blood and vomit.

The doctor sends paralysing fear and grief, he is desperate to stop the detective.

_"John, Stop that."_ Sherlock voice is sad and John opens up the connection to see the detective gripping a railing somewhere, trying to reign in his emotions.

_"I'm coming to get you and that's final._"

"I can't wait until he gets here." Moriarty squeals and for a second, John thinks the man is going to jump for joy.

"You are interesting." Moriarty states raising his eyebrow with interest. "But the detective is unpredictable."

"Leave him out of this." John says through gritted teeth.

"I can't, Johnny." Moriarty smirks. "If I hadn't picked him as my worthy opponent, I would have never found you."

"Stop." John states firmly, his restrained fist clenching.

"I think it's time to return the favor." The criminal mastermind says before starting to pace again.

The doctor stares dumbfounded. He wants to ask what Moriarty means? How will he return the favor?

John doesn't have to be a great detective to know that Sherlock probably wouldn't get out of the exchange alive.

The doctor panics, his thoughts are frantic and jumbled. He continues to send paralysing emotions to the genius and watching as Sherlock stumbles due to the grief, the anger, whatever John is sending.

_"JOHNATHAN!"_ Sherlock voice is loud and it causes the doctor to wince. John's headache stabs his brain with agony and his nosebleed is severe, and suddenly the doctor stops.

He sends a final emotional code, shame, grief and regret. _"I'm sorry."_

John closes his eyes, ignoring the criminal who is watching in amazement.

_"John."_

With one swift thought, John sends a strong calm feeling into Sherlock. John watches as the detective falls wherever he is, his eyes closing in the process.

Faint colors meet John's probes and the doctor backs out. The detective is unconscious.

John's guilty is consuming but the doctor realises it's for the greater good. If John hadn't knocked Sherlock out, the detective would have stomped into wherever they are and gotten himself killed in the process. It's for Sherlock's protection.

Anything to keep the detective safe.

John opens his eyes to look at the mastermind. Moriarty says nothing, he continues to stare with curiosity.

"He's not coming." John says exhausted, lowering his head slightly, watching the blood drip from his nose and onto his pants.

Moriarty stares and John tries to keeps his eyes open.

"Just kill me already." John calls bluntly, tiredly. He doesn't have a lot of time before Sherlock wakes again and this is his last tactic to keeping Sherlock safe for good.

"No, no, no, no, no, Johnny Boy." Moriarty shakes his head playfully. "I'm afraid that isn't going to happen."

"What?" John cries, his face full of desperation. He looks longingly into the mastermind's eyes.

"You are powerful, too powerful." Moriarty exclaims, John hangs his head in weary resignation. "I would be an idiot to throw away my own personal telepath."

"You said-" John cries weakly, fighting his attack, the headache and the nosebleed, with poor results.

"I'm soo changeable." Moriarty sings before putting a finger onto John's forehead, causing the blood to envelop the doctor once more. John's memories are strong, sand and blood and London and blood.

The image this time is of cobblestone, a boy lays crumpled on the ground. His skin glows red, blood seeping out of his pores. John recognises the boy as Ian Jeremiah.

"No." John whimpers, trying to shrug off Moriarty's finger. John squeezes his eyes shut. Jeremiah opens his eyes suddenly, the irises are a shimmering crimson. John is forced to look directly into the unnatural, blood red eyes.

"You killed me." The boy's voice is weak and accusing.

"NO!" John screams, thrashing and writhing. The finger is gone and John's breath is stuck in his lungs.

The doctor can't breath, fatigue, exhaustion, panic, agony. It's all taking it toll on the doctor.

"You are too interesting of a specimen to kill, John Watson." Moriarty exclaims before John passes out.


	28. The End

I know, I know. I took forever with this chapter. I kept writing it and then it didn't make sense so I re-wrote it. I hope this version is okay. It's a sad ending, but I've already started writing the sequel so you guys won't have to wait long.

It's the end guys and I'm sad,

I know you guys are dying for Moriarty and John but I feel like Lestrade needs some answers.

I'm going to tell you something right here. This chapter was difficult so there will be mistakes, I guarantee it.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>The detective lays across the back seat of the sedan in a restful sleep. Lestrade just stares, his face narrow and concentrated.<p>

_"What in the bloody hell is going on?"_ The DI thinks to himself, watching the skinny form snooze. Lestrade thinks back to the staircase not fifteen minutes ago. The genius had just gone down without any warning and yet, Mycroft knew, somehow, what was going to happen. The politician moved like he had a sixth sense, faster than the DI has ever seen the man move.

There is something wrong, seriously wrong, with this situation.

The DI tears his eyes away from the genius and finds his boyfriend's face. Mycroft's eyes haven't left his phone, fingers typing fiercely on a keypad, the only noise in the car.

Occasionally, the elder Holmes will look up at his brother, making sure Sherlock is still here, in the car. Double checking that the detective is all right, it's the closest thing to worry that Lestrade has ever seen.

The politician looks up slowly, his eyes reluctantly leaving his mobile screen and the DI watches in curiosity.

Mycroft's face, usually a solid mask, is splintering and emotions are getting through. Lestrade suddenly knows why Mycroft continues to look up, the politician is checking one thing.

He's making sure that Sherlock is still asleep.

_"Why?"_ Lestrade thinks to himself, irritated and confused by all of his many questions and the fact that none of them are being answered.

Contrary to popular belief, Greg is not an idiot, at least not when it comes to the Holmes brothers. He has learned from experience not to interrupt when a Holmes is concentrating, one never pressures a Holmes.

So, the DI waits as patiently as he can, hoping that his questions get answered or even have an answer.

For lack of anything better to do, Lestrade takes up a silent vigil, watching the detective, his face lax in sleep.

As his vigil goes on, as do his thoughts. Greg tries to shake his head in an effort to dispel them but they don't stop and Lestrade gives up and lets his thoughts roam free.

Is Sherlock really asleep? The DI still doesn't know what happened, the genius just collapsed for no reason and Mycroft acted like he had seen it before.

_What does that have to do with John?_

The doctor is in trouble, that much is obvious, but what kind of trouble? And how does Sherlock even know?

The detective was frantic in the hospital room, doubling over in pain and crying. Lestrade has never seen the genius lose control of his emotions like that. What changed?

The DI learned long ago to not ask questions out loud, it's much more simple and far less dangerous to go with the flow, and at the time that made sense. Offer what help he could and follow the Holmes brother until answers were provided.

It wouldn't be the first time something like that has happened.

But now, the Yarder just sees a passed out detective with no explanations and as much as he is reveling in his patience the DI finds it getting harder and harder to keep quiet.

Why did Sherlock pass out anyway?

What did that?

_Who_ did that?

Lestrade is buried deep in silence and unanswered questions, each thought revolving around in his head and a dull headache is starting to form.

None of it makes any sense and Lestrade just shakes his head in defeat and his brain hurts as he tries to will the doubts and questions away.

Just as Greg pushes all of the thoughts away and decides to focus solely on breathing and their destination, Mycroft speaks for the first time.

"Gregory." Mycroft says softly and the DI feels a hand lay gently on his knees. Lestrade calms significantly into the gesture and looks up at the elder Holmes.

The politician's phone lays in his lap and his eyes are only looking at the sliver haired man.

The question come flowing back, so many filter through Lestrade's brain and it's overwhelming.

"What's going on, Mycroft?" The DI whispers, his curiosity desperate and encompassing.

The elder Holmes sighs and furrows his brow.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to be blunt, we don't have a lot of time." The politician states. The DI glances from Sherlock's still form back to his boyfriend in confusion, but nods anyway, thinking it best that he remain quiet.

"John's a telepath." Mycroft deadpans. Greg's mouth shoots open, his eyes widen with disbelief. The Inspector seems to contemplate what Mycroft said for a minute before his eyes start to flash dangerously in a fit of anger.

He's lying. Why would Mycroft lie?

"If you don't want to tell me, I get it." The DI spits, uncharacteristically angry and looks away from the politician. It's obvious that the elder Holmes doesn't want to the tell the truth, probably some national security reason, but there is no reason to lie.

Mycroft sighs, squeezing Greg's leg. "I'm afraid I'm entirely serious, my dear." Mycroft's tone is gentler, yet more commanding at the same time. Greg's head whips back and stares into Mycroft's eyes and for some insane, Holmesian reason, Lestrade trust the older man.

Lestrade stares back in bewilderment and suddenly doesn't know what to feel. Is it true? How? Why?

Greg, his emotions confused and out of whack, does the only thing he can think of, the man laughs. A nervous and amused giggle.

"A telepath?" The DI asks incredulous, shaking his head. "No way."

"Think about it, Gregory." Mycroft begins, "There have been plenty of cases in which you found yourself confused by their communication tactics." The older man states pointing to the detective in the process.

"Yes, but that's just Sherlock. He always does that." Lestrade tries to reason with himself, glancing at the genius before returning his eyes once again to Mycroft.

"They have conversations in their minds." Mycroft states bluntly and Lestrade's head is reeling.

"What?" The DI gapes, his eyes darting from face to face.

"It's how, at crime scenes, they solve it without talking." The politician says earnestly, picking up his mobile once again, it's vibration echoing the car.

"That's because John can read minds?" The DI inquires.

"Yes." Mycroft answers patiently, glaring at his screen.

"Did John make Sherlock pass out?" Lestrade questions, his eyes scanning the detective in a new light.

"Gregory, John is powerful. He calmed my brother down enough to lull him into sleep." The politician remarks, one of his hands never leaving Lestrade's knee.

The DI stares in confusion, his mind going back to the stairwell. Sherlock seemed everything but calm, but Lestrade supposes that's not the relevant point of the matter.

Lestrade just hums in response, concentrating on the detective and his own thoughts.

The DI is not a brilliant man, or so the detective says, but Greg is a good man, a man who knows how to take things in stride and ironically doesn't need a lot of detail.

So instead of asking a billion questions that neither one of them have the energy nor the time for, Lestrade speaks one more sentence and then leaves the conversation alone.

"I would have pegged Sherlock for the telepath." Lestrade deadpans, looking at the detective while Mycroft looks up from his mobile and lets out a chuckle.

* * *

><p>John slowly wakes, his mind hurting and his body aching. The doctor is transfer swiftly and urgently into soldier mode. He ignores the pain and the aches and he opens his eyes with force and determination.<p>

He hasn't been moved, the white bland walls look back at him, mocking with entrapment. The room is the same, but the blood and vomit have been cleaned up, making the room as colorless and pristine as ever and John wonders idly how long he has been unconscious.

John tries to keep himself detached from the white walls and lack of furniture and he wonders how long it took Moriarty to get bored of John's forced unconsciousness.

There is no new information from his scanning so the doctor turns his attention back to his own body.

John rolls his shoulders, causing the chair to creak and the ropes to tighten. He aches all over, his head, his arms, his wrists, his legs, there is no way to know how long he has been passed out with the amount of soreness. The blood from his nosebleed has long since dried and John can feel it crusting on his face. He must look a right mess. The faint smell of his own blood causes the doctor's memories to flood back as he tries to swallow the bile rising in his throat.

Altered memories of the blood reminds John of Moriarty causing the soldier to shiver with apprehension and a tiny bit of fear.

John shakes his head, trying to get back into his soldier mode and away from his fears and memories.

A sudden wave hits him and the doctor leans back, involuntarily trying to get away from it. The metallic intrusion lingers with John, it's smell stronger then before. Is John more susceptible to the sense of Moriarty's blood now? How close is the evil genius?

John tries to ignore his mental warnings and questions, choosing to concentrate and think.

For a second, the doctor is tempted to open up the connection between Sherlock and himself, but instantly decides against. The doctor's shame and guilt coming in full force. He had to knock the detective out. He had to prevent the six foot, angry, coat flying genius from barging into John's captivity and ending up getting injured.

Despite keeping the younger man safe, John still feels the guilt. He used his gift on purpose and against his boyfriend, two different situations that should never have happened.

Suddenly the doctor is angry, angry at being manipulated by Moriarty, the evil man making John bend his rules and harm Sherlock.

If the doctor is honest with himself, however, he knows full well that it's not entirely Moriarty's fault. The doctor did it, even if it was a subtle coercion.

The detective will never forgive him and John doesn't expect him too.

The doctor hopes silently that the detective is still passed out, John was careful not to put him in a coma but that doesn't mean the detective will have a restful sleep. He is going to be angry when he wakes up.

If he isn't sleeping, is he on his way here?

Did he really figure out where John is?

Did Moriarty move them?

John throws that question out the window, the room is too much alike the first room, they have to be the same room. It has an industrial feel and warehouse-like appearance. There are tons of warehouses in London, which one is he in?

Sherlock found out, he knows where they are and he probably even knows why Moriarty took John.

Why did the criminal mastermind take him?

What does Moriarty want? Could it really just be as simple as his own personal telepath? The evil man can read minds, what could he possibly want John for?

The force of blood hits John like a wall and the doctor's thoughts are suspended as the door creaks open.

John fights through the onslaught and tries to keep his face neutral.

"Johnny." The voice coos before a body enters the room, causing the doctor to shiver. John doesn't move, he holds his ground, not even wincing when the criminal mastermind's face peaks around the door, pushing his body into John's cell.

Moriarty walks in, impeccable and put together like usual. His stance is predatory and firm but John doesn't notice, trying to keep the blood at bay and away from the features of his face.

He fails. The consulting criminal moves into the room and shuts the door with a loud click. He advances slowly, only stopping centimeters in front of the doctor.

"You can smell me." The criminal mastermind says bluntly, leaning in closer to the doctor who in turns leans away from the stench.

John's mouth gapes in shock at the bluntness and also the accuracy of the man in front of him.

"I thought you said you couldn't read my mind?" John questions anxiously. Was Moriarty lying before when he said he could read the doctor's thoughts?

"I can't." Moriarty shrugs simply before backing up slightly. "Your emotions radiate off your skin. You are too easy, Johnny Boy."

The doctor doesn't say anything, he focuses solely on trying to make his face completely neutral, but a shiver runs through his body uncontrollably and that causes Moriarty to laugh.

The soldier is losing many things, his patience, his willingness to play games but most of all, John is losing the ability to sit in the room any longer.

"What do you want, Jim?" The doctor snaps. It's the first time that the doctor has called him by his first name but John is too tired and too bored to care.

The criminal mastermind doesn't finch, in fact, the man smiles wider, his teeth shimmering with sickening perfection.

"I'm a powerful man, but I can't manipulate people as well as you can, deary." The criminal mastermind begins, "you have the ability to make people feel emotions that you falsify." The criminal puts a finger on John's torso and the doctor moves slightly, trying to push it off. Thank god no images come, the soldier is still too weak from the last attack.

"Think about it, that would be extremely helpful in my organization." Moriarty wrings his hands together gleefully and John turns in disgust. "I can only hear what they are thinking presently, but you, Johnny, you can delve into their thoughts and control them whilst telling me every thought they've ever thought. It's positively exciting."

John scoffs, no way would the doctor be helping the mad man.

"If you think that I would willingly work for you, let alone digging into people's brains intent to harm, you are sadly mistaken." The doctor spits through gritted teeth.

"Why?" Moriarty snaps, equally angry. "You did it for Sherlock. You killed that boy, Ian Jeremiah."

John freezes, how did Moriarty know about that?

_"Moriarty knows about everything."_ John thinks to himself bitterly.

"I didn't-" John starts,

"You made that boy fall, Johnny." Moriarty states menacingly, advancing slowly upon the doctor. "You are naturally a bad person, my dear."

John shakes his head and stammers, "It was self-preservation."

"Your rules." Moriarty laughs with amusement and John stares."I know about your rules and let me tell you, your rules make you weak." He spits.

"You are a killer and you will fit perfectly in my organization." The Irishman snickers, his face bending down to look John in the eye.

"I'm not a killer." John replies angrily, "It was a necessity, that _rapist_ was going to kill us."

The criminal mastermind laughs and straightens up, he paces around the room again lazily. "You are dangerous, and I like it." Moriarty whispers behind the doctor, leaning down, his breath against John's ear. The soldier scowls in repulsion and leaning forward, trying his best not to be touched by the criminal.

"I will never work for you as long as I live." John snaps with finality, straightening with strength and courage.

"We will see about that." The Irishman sings with pleasure. John doesn't know what to say or do.

"Sherlock will find me." is John's snide reply, trying to push Moriarty's buttons. The doctor is angry and hurt and trying to access his percentage for surviving this meeting.

His chances are dwindling and the doctor is not going to go without a fight.

"How? You didn't call him. He's still passed out at your flat." Moriarty's grin is scary and John's face briefly flashes terror before the soldier part of him gets in control. "You didn't want to get him involved."

How can this man know John so well? He really has to work on masking his face better.

"That's fine with me, I got what I wanted." Moriarty comments, walking around John and facing the older man. "Sherlock means little to me now."

"I don't know how to say this to make you understand." John sighs, lowering his head in frustration. "I will not work for you. Not now, not ever and never willingly." The doctor's head bolts up and his eyes find the Irishman, twisting his words with as much hate and conviction as he can.

The criminal sighs dejectedly, turning away from John slightly, "I was afraid you were going to say that." He says, picking up his pacing routine. Moriarty is behind John again and the doctor doesn't move, he does not give in to the evil genius's taunts.

"I don't like getting my hands dirty, but for you, it's a simple pleasure." The criminal mastermind remarks, his face warping into a grin that John cannot see.

Moriarty lifts his hand silently, hunching over and placing a finger on John's cheek, caressing the doctor with tenderness.

John's head burns and the blood intensifies, an image starts to burn and the doctor thrashes. John squeezes his eyes shut uncontrollably and is forced to have his full attention on the image that Moriarty is altering.

John is in the sitting room, drinking a cup of tea. A normal depiction of a normal day at 221B Baker Street. With the small exception that instead of the usual flooring, the sitting room is sinking in a pool of blood. John watches himself in horror as he does nothing but continuing to sip his cuppa and read the newspaper.

Suddenly, Sherlock bursts into the room, clad in his usual scarf and dark coat. As the detective is peeling off his layers, John starts to notice the bruises and cuts upon the high cheekbones. The detective is cradling himself as if injured and John wants to call out to him but his memory self is oblivious. Without warning, the detective falls to the floor, cradling his side and wincing in pain and memory John does nothing.

Choked noises are coming from the memory and John watches in horror as Sherlock drowns in the blood, too weak to lift his head up. Red pools around the genius's face as his mouth gapes open, gasping for breath.

John screams in horror.

"SHERLOCK!" Pain, grief and fear envelope the doctor and he writhes and flails against his restraints. Sherlock's body is flailing and there is nothing that John can do.

"SHERLOCK!" The doctor screams again and suddenly the image is gone, along with Moriarty's finger. John inhales a shaky breathe, the pain throbbing and the image scarring.

John's breathing is erratic and shallow and the doctor is becoming anxious.

"What are you seeing Johnny Boy," The Irishman whispers playfully and pushes his finger onto John's cheek again.

John wiggles and yells out in pain, blood envelops him and another image comes to John's mind.

Sherlock sits upon the couch, blood seeping out of his head. The doctor calls out for him but the detective doesn't respond. Ropes are wrapped thickly around the lanky man, making Sherlock immobile.

John instantly recognises this memory from the intruder. John is on the floor, struggling as the intruder lays on top of him, his eyes crimson and hungry.

The struggling soldier yells for him to get off but the intruder doesn't move, his hands are around John's neck, squeezing and holding firm.

Suddenly, a gun is pointed at Sherlock and John freaks, he moves and thrashes, struggles and writhes. He knows where this memory goes and he does not want to relive it.

The couch cushions suddenly turn blood red, pulling Sherlock further into them. Their tendrils wrapping around the detective and Sherlock doesn't seem to notice. John yells and cries in terror.

A loud bang echoes the flat and John stills, immediately looking over to the genius. A large hole seeps blood, right between the detective's eyes.

"NO!" The doctor screams.

The image is literally painful and John finds himself pushing back, hard, with his feet.

The chair creaks under all of the pressure and starts to break apart when John hits the ground.

John rolls and squirms on the floor, trying to make the pain, the fear, and the grief go away. He screams, long and loud, expelling every emotion.

The doctor can't help it, he would rather not give Moriarty the satisfaction, but honestly, the criminal mastermind is the last thing on the soldier's mind.

John is focused on not dying from his head exploding.

"Shush, Johnny Boy." The doctor vaguely hears the evil genius and doesn't even bother obeying his request.

He deliberately (even though he is in excruciating pain, he is still a soldier in crisis) rolls around the floor, causing more stress on the chair. He feels his ropes slacken a little bit and John is rubbing against them furiously, trying to get out.

Moriarty steps closer to John and the doctor yells extra loud, right in the man's face. With a look of disgust the pretentious criminal backs up, turning his back away from John.

The doctor struggles a bit more and finally, his wrist are free from the ropes, the chair starting to break apart. John doesn't move his limbs, keeping them still against the remnants of his bonds until the mastermind comes closer again, this time with an angry glint in his eye.

"You are rather fascinating." Moriarty spits and leans down, holding his finger out in preparation. John moves swiftly, grabbing Moriarty by the wrist and pulls, yanking the man across him, taking Moriarty by surprise. The evil genius lands on top of John but the doctor quickly maneuvers out from underneath him, sitting up and placing a knee against his back.

The door burst open and a gunshot rings out causing John to fall to the ground. He doesn't recognise the pain until he hits the hard floor. Moriarty is up, his movements jerky and angry. John writhes on the ground, gripping his stomach. Blood seeps out of his midsection and the doctor grunts in pain.

"That. Was. Very. Rude." Moriarty snaps through gritted teeth and then a finger finds John's forehead again and for a moment John wishes for death.

This memory doesn't have images, everything is blood, simple and flowing crimson. John is screaming, gasping for breath, his head hurts with such ferocity that his gunshot wound feels likes it's being lick on by bunnies. Razors cut against his brain, knifes saw at his memories, blood is squirting everywhere.

It's like John is caught in a river of blood, the doctor can't move, he can't breathe, he is drowning and his paralysing fear and pain is slowly killing him. It's the worst set of emotions that John has ever felt in his life. The doctor is screaming and yelling, not bothering with pretenses.

A foot stomps onto John's midsection and the doctor cries out, his head lolling and his fight gone.

"You will die here, Dr, Watson." Moriarty spits and Moran's foot pushes harder before letting up.

The door creaks open and Moran and Moriarty are gone, again.

John starts to weep alone in the room he is going to die in.

* * *

><p>Sherlock bolts upright, startling the two other men in the room. The detective's brain is is exploding in pain, fear, exhaustion, and grief. Sherlock maneuvers himself so his head is in his hands, the pads of his fingers gripping his hair, anything to try and stop the emotions.<p>

Sherlock can tell right away that the connection is strong and unintentional and Moriarty is torturing him.

"Sherlock." Lestrade calls him, and the genius can hear the DI shuffle closer. Sherlock moves quickly through the pain. He stands up and rushes out of the sitting room, only one thing on his mind.

"John." Sherlock yells over his shoulder as his only explanation.

Another wave of pain sends the detective careening to the floor of the landing abruptly.

"This is getting ridiculous." Sherlock screams, writhing uncontrollably, his back arching, a echoing scream floats through the detective's thoughts. He instantly recognises it as John's scream.

"What's going on?" Mycroft bends down next to the genius, watching in horror as he younger brother suffers.

"I can hear him, Mycroft." Sherlock says, "I don't know how, but I can hear him screaming." The detective is gripping his temples and gritted his teeth. "They are torturing him."

"Sherlock-" The politician puts a hand on the younger Holmes's head trying to comfort the man.

"We have to get there now." is Sherlock demanding remark and the detective stands up, wobbling and his knees buckling.

Sherlock stumbles down the stairs and into Mycroft's waiting car, Lestrade and the politician in tow.

"I know which warehouse they are in." Mycroft states looking worriedly at his brother who is hunched over and breathing erratically.

"The one Joseph Abernathy died in." Sherlock pants out in response, trying to straighten up and failing. Unintentional connections have never been this strong, it worries Sherlock because if he is experiencing the emotions this vigorously, he can't imagine how much John is suffering, let alone the fact that John is transferring a lot more than emotions. Sherlock heard his scream, how? Why? How hurt is the doctor?

"Faster Mycroft." Sherlock puffs when another wave of paralysing pain hits the detective, causing Sherlock to groan out loud.

"We are almost there, my team will get there before us and neutralise threats." Mycroft remarks, typing on his mobile, his eyes wild and full of thick emotions. Lestrade remains quiet, staring with intent concentration.

"ARGH!" Sherlock screams suddenly and nearly passes out, images of blood enter the detective's brain and Sherlock stops breathing. Why can he see images? Are they coming from John? What is going on?

Sherlock lists forward, almost careening into the floor of the backseat, his eyes squeezed firmly shut. Lestrade acts first, grabbing the detective's head and helping him onto the leather cushions. The DI is handling things exceptionally well, considering that a friend of his is actually a telepath and he can communicate freely and dangerously with the detective.

He's handling things swimmingly.

"Sherlock, what now?" The politician asks anxiously, his face worried and not even bothering to hide.

"I can see what he is seeing." Sherlock gasps, watching as the images of blood float into his brain and pain, endless pain comes with it.

"Two minutes, Sherlock." Mycroft calls, "Hang on."

Sherlock curls into himself, grunting and yelling in pain as the sedan travels fast, definitely ignoring the laws of the road.

A wave of shame, guilt and regret hit the detective with such force that Sherlock thinks they are his own emotions. The detective interprets the _"I'm sorry."_

"No. No." Sherlock cries. Another wave of pain and then a brief image, white walls surround the doctor and Sherlock can see it.

The detective is frazzled but he knows where the doctor is being kept.

"Hurry." Sherlock yells, sending thoughts to John.

* * *

><p>John grips his stomach with force, the images are finally subsiding. Why did Moriarty leave?<p>

_"Because you are going to die, Watson."_ The doctor answers himself bitterly.

John lays on the cold floor with defeat, his whole body aching as he slowly bleeds out. John's grip is loosening and the doctor is fighting to stay conscious.

He opens up the connection without hesitation, the doctor feels these are his last moments, Moriarty has left him to die. He sends shame, guilt and regret.

_"John. John. John."_ The detective is desperate, and John can see images of Mycroft's car float through the connection.

John sends waves of calm and happiness, something to make the detective less wound up.

_"John. Stop. We are coming. I'm almost there."_ John smiles weakly to himself.

A rush of pain shoots through the doctor, causing John to squirm on the ground, arching his back in frustration.

_"We are here John, just hang on."_ John sighs in relief but the agony hits him hard. John's hands are slippery and losing their determination.

Slowly, the doctor closes his eyes and tries to relax.

* * *

><p>The pain is suddenly gone for Sherlock, the detective takes a deep breath just as the car enters the complex.<p>

"Shite." Sherlock calls, bursting out of the car and into the warehouse. The detective briefly registers Mycroft's men floating around the warehouse, their guns out and searching. Sherlock scoffs, he knows that Moriarty is long gone, they should be focusing their efforts on finding John.

"Sherlock." Lestrade calls after him but the genius doesn't stop, his mind focused on John, mentally trying to rouse the doctor.

The poking sensation has stopped and Sherlock instantly fears the worse.

With Mycroft and Lestrade following, Sherlock twists around corners and down hallways, running deep into the factory. He recognises the room, he searched it when they were last here.

"Hang on John." Sherlock pushes with distress panting slightly as he sprints through the warehouse.

Sherlock turns the next corner and burst into the room.

The detective freezes for a second and it's enough to scan the area. In that second, all the genius sees is blood, on the walls, pooling around the doctor, just like the image that John had pushed into his brain.

John lays on the floor motionless, he slightly curled onto his side. His right arm grips his stomach loosely while his left is jutted out uncomfortably. Bits of broken chair litter the ground around the doctor and Sherlock starts to move again.

"John." Sherlock screams out loud, running to the soldier. He is crying and falling to his knees by John's head. The detective grabs the man's head, cradling John in his lap.

"John." The younger man wails, rocking the two of them back and forth as Lestrade and Mycroft enter the room, the two men freezing at the sight.

"John. You have to WAKE UP!" Sherlock screams and the doctor seems to wince slightly before opening his eyes.

John's vision is blurred but he smiles bleakly at the familiar voice.

"Hey." The older man's voice is hoarse and scratchy and John winces. Lestrade bends down wordlessly and presses his hands to the doctor's stomach, sirens already singing in the distance.

"Hey yourself." The genius blubbers, gripping the man and pulling him tighter. Sherlock's exposed hands are cupping John's neck and the doctor is being fed pleasant memories from Sherlock's thoughts. Calm thoughts cause the soldier to close his eyes.

"You have to stay with me. Stay awake!" The detective commands, pulling all of his thoughts out of the doctor. John's eyes shoot open in surprise.

"I'll...try." John pants out, his breathing becoming shallow.

The doctor winces when Lestrade presses harder onto him.

John can barely feel Lestrade's images. They are scattered and John doesn't even bother focusing on them, he winces when Lestrade moves his hands away briefly and it's enough for Sherlock to notice.

Before the detective can do anything about it, the doctor suddenly arches his back, screaming out in pain and Lestrade pushes harder, trying to stop the blood but the pool beneath them just keeps growing and growing.

"John. John." Sherlock yells, his hands flailing and his body moving with desperation. Suddenly, the doctor falls limp in Sherlock's lap and the detective's hand immediately find John's pulse, it's weak and fading fast.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yells, looking up briefly with tears in his eyes.

"They are here." Mycroft calls back quietly.

Sherlock catches Lestrade briefly lifting his hands from the doctor's midsection, his blood-stained hand growing slippery. John writhes in torture, struggling in pain and turmoil.

"Lestrade. Get away." The detective demands and the DI looks shocked.

"I have to keep-" Lestrade begins, staring at the genius with glaring bewilderment.

"I said, get away." Sherlock says through gritted teeth but Lestrade doesn't back down.

"He is going to -" Lestrade yells back but Mycroft's hand is suddenly on the DI's shoulder.

"You are hurting him, Greg." The politician says urgently and Lestrade's hands are gone so fast that the doctor arches his back again, his mouth screaming through his unconsciousness.

One of Sherlock's hand snakes down John's torso and finds his midsection, pushing pressure against the wound.

"JOHNATHAN! You do not get to die on me." The detective yells, one of his hands gripping at the doctor's face, sending cold thoughts trying to break John out of his unconscious state.

It's not working and Sherlock is growing even more anxious.

_"John."_

_"John."_

_"John."_

The detective cries over and over again, he doesn't notice when the paramedics storm into the room, his eyes focused on the bloody face of his boyfriend.

A firm hand grips Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock you have to let go." Mycroft's voice says.

The detective lets go swiftly but doesn't move. Lestrade hooks an arm around the detective's thin waist and scoops him up, making the younger man stand and getting him out of the way.

Sherlock stares in shock as the paramedics work on John, there gloved hands moving swiftly as John winces and writhes against the connections. Just before Sherlock opens his mouth to yell at them, John stops moving.

"I've got no pulse." One of the medics says suddenly and Lestrade feels Sherlock tense against his form.

* * *

><p>The paramedics had to dash out of the warehouse and they were gone before Sherlock could catch up and ride with them. The genius had cursed and snapped at everyone, running to Mycroft's waiting car and jumping in. The DI and the politician barely had time to hop in the car before it took off.<p>

Now, the detective paces the waiting room, demanding answers. It's been twelve hours and the doctors, nurses and Mycroft alike, will not let the detective see John or even give him information about the doctor.

Mycroft had gone about an hour ago to see what he could find out and the DI is sitting on a chair, wringing his hands and watching the genius with an anxious stare.

_"John."_

_"John."_

_"John."_

The detective pushes over and over again, hoping for him to answer back.

The sudden clicking of shoes distracts Sherlock and the genius looks up to see his brother.

Mycroft's head is lowered, staring at the tile floor beneath him. Sherlock almost collapses.

"No." He cries quietly, watching his brother with extreme apprehension and disbelief.

The politician finally makes it to the detective and he stands directly in front of Sherlock.

"Sherlock," Mycroft starts, breathing a deep sigh and slowly raising his head.

Sherlock grips the man's shoulders, searching Mycroft's face for lies.

"No." Sherlock breaths weakly, grabbing his older brother's chin, causing the politician to look into Sherlock's eyes.

Mycroft's face is full of guilt and shame, grief and sadness. It's all Sherlock needs, he turns his face away, his eyes red with sadness.

"No." The detective wails quietly his hands sliding lazily from the politician's shoulders. The genius's face is blank but his eyes are darting wildly with sadness and grief. Lestrade is suddenly next to him and the detective moves away, cringing from the comfort.

John is dead. Gone, gone forever and it's all his fault.

_"John."_

_"John." _

_"John."_

The doctor doesn't answer and tears fall down the detective's face with increased fervor.

John is gone. No more jumpers, no more smiles. No more John.

The detective shakes his head, this can't be right. John doesn't die, he is a soldier.

"I want to see him." The genius commands, intent on proving his brother wrong.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Sherlock." Mycroft states moving closer to the detective, preparing to catch him if his brother runs.

"I don't care what you think, Mycroft." Sherlock spits angrily moving towards the morgue, trying to bypass his older brother.

Mycroft stands his ground and stays firmly planted, blocking the genius's way.

"Mycroft." Sherlock hisses before sprinting down another direction. Mycroft freezes for a moment, confusion in his face as Sherlock takes off down a different hallway.

Lestrade doesn't hesitate, he bolts after the detective.

The detective zigzags around the hospital corridors, finally making it to the morgue.

He can hear Molly in the room, her sniffles alerting Sherlock to his denial.

But the detective doesn't hesitate, he bursts into the room, pushing both doors open with his hands.

The genius freezes when he sees the man on table, Molly's back to him, covering John with a sheet. The detective can't move and all breath leaves him.

Arms hook around the detective's elbows and within seconds and Sherlock is being pulled back out of the morgue, the doors swinging shut ominously.

The detective doesn't struggle, he doesn't move, he lets himself get dragged out of the room. The room that John is in.

The room that dead John is in.

Sherlock wants to scream, he wants to yell and hit things but nothing comes. The detective is numb.

Sherlock's back meets a wall and the detective is forced against it by Mycroft and Lestrade hands.

The genius's vision is blurry and his mind is blank. Thoughts escape the genius and he isn't even bothered.

_"John."_

"Sherlock." Mycroft calls, placing himself in Sherlock's fixed vision, the genius's eyes never leaving the door. "You need to breathe."

The detective involuntarily refuses. How can he breath? John is dead. He isn't breathing. The genius doesn't deserve to breath.

_"John."_

John is dead.

The fact finally hits him and the detective collapses, doubling over, dragging Mycroft and Lestrade with him.

A hard structure is beneath the genius abruptly, bending the man's body and causing Sherlock to sit.

"I want to see him." Sherlock says weakly.

"I don't think that's a good idea." Molly says coming through the doors, looking into the detective's eyes. Her eyes are bright red and puffy.

John is dead.

Sherlock is too tired to fight.

_"John."_

John is dead.

* * *

><p>Wow. Just wow.<p> 


	29. Epilogue

I just wanted to say, thank you everyone for sticking with the story and all of the reviews. It means so much to me I can't even express it.

I know the last couple of chapters (okay the whole story) has had issues with grammar and britpick. I'm sorry for that, I do try my best but things slip through.

This is the last chapter and I'll be putting up the sequel shortly.

I love each and everyone of you.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>The doctor wakes slowly, his midsection hurts and his brain throbs. The smell of antiseptic lingers in the doctor's noise but John ignores it, it's a far better smell than blood.<p>

"John." Mycroft's voice is impatient and it calls out to the doctor. John wants to run away from the voice, he wants it to be Sherlock's voice. Where is Sherlock? Why isn't he here?

"JOHN!" Mycroft yells again and John becomes suddenly anxious. Why is he screaming? Is there something wrong with Sherlock? Is that why he isn't here? The doctor fights through the drugs and the haze and his eyes flutter open in a panic. The room is cold and John misses the detective's warmth.

When John finally gets his eyes open, he scans the room before finding Mycroft. The politician stands next to John, his umbrella tapping on the ground and his face smooth and impenetrable.

John tries to shake his head but the pain and the agony stop him. He looks up at the elder Holmes with curiosity.

"Mycroft?" John rasps out weakly, hissing slightly as a shooting pain moves across his body.

"Do not contact Sherlock." Mycroft says loudly and insistent and John's face twists in befuddlement. Why can he contact Sherlock? Is he okay?

"Why?" John breathes out, looking worriedly at Mycroft. How did the detective get hurt? Did Moriarty go after Sherlock? John is panicking, picturing the genius in a ditch somewhere.

"This is very important." The politician says, capturing John's wild eyes while looming over the blond man's bed. "You are dead."

John reels in confusion and his mouth shoots open. _"What does he mean I'm dead?" _John thinks to himself staring at the politician. Why would Mycroft say such a thing?

"I'm dead?" John chokes out,

"Yes. It's imperative that you don't mentally contact the detective." Mycroft remarks bluntly and John's face twists in confusion. "We just got him to believe it."

"Wait. What?" The doctor shouts and looks angrily at the elder Holmes. "I'm dead and Sherlock doesn't know!"

"That's the whole point of you being dead, Dr. Watson." Mycroft snaps impatiently.

"Why? This doesn't make any sense." John is angry and irritated and confused and a little bit sad. Where is Sherlock?

"Moriarty fled and he thinks you are dead." is Mycroft's simple response like it's the most straightforward thing in the world. "He will never know you are coming."

"WHAT?" John screams appalled at Mycroft's tenacity.

"You are dead to the world." Mycroft explains again and John huffs in annoyance.

"You keep saying that, and yet I'm still confused." The doctor is angry, his fist twisting into the sheets uncontrollably.

"We had to kill you so you can chase after Moriarty." Mycroft clarifies in his own version of 'your an idiot' tone. John is too angry to care.

"Why?" John shakes his head, all his pain being ignored, confusion and answers becoming his number one priority.

"You have...advantages." Mycroft explains, walking around the room languidly.

"Because he thinks I'm dead." John inquires.

"Precisely." Mycroft sighs in relief, glad that John is finally catching on. "That and you can sense him."

John stares in shock. "Oh come on now, Sherlock told me." The politician says waving off John's gaping mouth.

_"Sherlock."_ The doctor suddenly thinks about the detective and how this is going to hurt the man, devastating him.

"And Sherlock thinks I'm dead?" John asks firmly and Mycroft's nods enthusiastically, thinking that this is going better than expected. Unfortunately for Mycroft, it is far from over.

"HOW COULD YOU?" The doctor screams, grabbing a pillow from behind him and throwing it suddenly at the elder Holmes. Mycroft stares in shock and easily (and gracefully) ducks out of the way of the flying object.

"John-" The politician starts, tucking his twirling umbrella under his arm anxiously, and holding up both hands in surrender.

"THIS WILL KILL HIM!" John yells, anger seething through him and the doctor's vision is starting to see red.

"John, calm down." The politician says quietly but John doesn't, he scowls with anger and disgust.

"You didn't even consult me!" John screams, throwing his arms in the air.

"John," Mycroft starts. "You know as well as I do, that Moriarty is a dangerous man."

"That's a bollocks excuse Mycroft." John exasperates. "You killed me without even giving me the chance to choose."

"I didn't have another choice and neither did you." Mycroft snaps angrily catching the doctor off guard.

"Of course I did." John spits back, "I'm a human being, I always get a choice."

"That's very naive of you Doctor." Mycroft remarks acidly, waving his hands like he is trying to physically bat away John's ignorance.

The stare at each other in silence for a long time. John trying to calm down and the politician watching with interest.

"You will be saving Sherlock's life." The politician comments finally, trying to entice the doctor.

John shakes his head indignantly. "Don't even think about making this about him." John snarls. "You know full well, this is a matter of national security. This is about you."

Mycroft lowers his head. "Fine, but you are the only chance to stop him. He thinks you are dead." Mycroft states, looking at John with conviction and determination. In that look, John knows he isn't going to win.

_"John."_

_"Oh great, perfect timing."_ John thinks bitterly. His face must have twitched because Mycroft is instantly talking to the doctor.

"You can't contact him John. This is important." Mycroft states, looming menacingly over the doctor. "He needs to believe you are dead."

John shakes his head indignantly. "I can't do this to him."

"It's already done." Mycroft states. "He knows you aren't coming back. Turning up alive would ruin the chance we have."

"Mycroft." John hisses at the morbidity of the politician's statement. "This is cruel."

"You are being selfish, John." Mycroft moves towards the bed, his voice firm and commanding.

"How?" John asks incredulously, failing to see the connection.

"No matter what you chose, you are dead until Moriarty's corpse is in my possession." Mycroft voice turns scary and dark, a hint of manipulation and terror radiate from it. John resists the urge to cower in alarm. The soldier stands his ground and glares at the politician.

"If you refuse to go, Sherlock will try to avenge your death and die in the process." The elder Holmes continues.

John stares in horror, the politician is right, Sherlock would travel all over the continent searching for vengeance. The detective would die and it would be all of John's fault.

"Your selfishness will get my brother killed, John." Mycroft adds, twisting John guilt and pain even more. "Only you can stop Moriarty."

John is torn between Sherlock and getting rid of the evil genius for good.

"What guarantee do you have that if I go, Sherlock will stay." John questions quietly and Mycroft smiles slightly at the doctor's resignation.

"I can be very persuasive." The politician comments.

"I think you mean manipulative." John mutters and the elder Holmes lets out a chuckle. John knows the man is forcing him to go after Moriarty and he is using his own brother to do it. If Mycroft has such good connections why doesn't he stop Sherlock from leaving the continent regardless? This is a lose-lose situation and once again John has become the unwilling puppet.

"This is a once in a life time opportunity, John. You will return and Moriarty will be dead." The politician is standing next to John know, his demeanor soft and patient.

"This will kill him." John repeats with a sigh, tears falling from his eyes.

"My brother is strong. He will make it." Mycroft explains but John shakes his head.

_"John."_

Tears fall down John's face as he talks. "Fine. Where to?" John exasperates, burying his head into his hands with resignation.

"Switzerland." The politician remarks, smiling gloomily.


End file.
